#she deserves so much love shes been through so much

[turquoizxe]

𝐔𝐧𝐢𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐇𝐞𝐫𝐬

Sevika x Piltover!Fem!Reader

content ― one-shot; hatefucking, "til' the room stank", light pain kink, degradation, some biting, the reader is also bratty highkey, smut, overstim, fingering, strap, pillow talk, mentions of possible feelings, Sevika is down bad for you, #needdat #realbad

author's note ― this was supposed to be a small < 500 word drabble, but ovulation had other plans. enjoy!

wc ― 2.445k

You didn't have it in you to give up whatever this was. It felt too good. She wanted to hate your guts, ruin you, and deprive you of any happiness that she thought you didn't deserve. But I guess other plans were written on the cards.

Thoughts about how you were, how you felt ― it plagued every corner of her brain. And even you didn't understand how much she needed you.

Despite you being from Piltover, your parents were from Zaun. And due to your luck, your family had somehow found themselves outside of poverty. The unfortunate thing is that their corrupt principles still remained despite being surrounded by riches; It in fact made it worse.

Politics was always a rough issue at the dinner table, and you had your opinions about the council. You'd be lying if their narcissism didn't rub off on you quite a bit, and Sevika could tell from miles away that you'd be a problem.

Despite your background and upbringing in Piltover, you and your friends would sneak out to Zaun on more than one occasion. Your parents were unaware that you had as many connections to Zaun as they did, and possibly even more. You'd often run into Sevika more often than she'd like to. Your favorite interaction being within the brothel.

Silco had recently hired you and asked you to find Sevika, who hadn't known that you had become a partner in their line of work. She was often seen at The Last Drop when she was on downtime. You knew her features all too well, and it'd be nice to greet her with your lovely face.

You didn't think she would be able to fuck as good as she looked. While it had been made to your knowledge that she was also a regular at the Brothel, you had been browsing, the familiar voice had echoed. And you hated admitting to yourself how her baritone and shaken up the core inside you. You were gone before you could even make an attempt to find a partner that night. And you couldn't help but hear the filthy words that left her lips every time you had to interact with her.

"That pretty little cunt is mine, isn't it?"

God, you hoped those thoughts didn't chase through you with every moment she spoke with you. Once you started working together more, the tension got stronger, and neither of you could pinpoint when and where it started. But you knew what strengthened it. Your quick wit and smart mouth kept her entertained, and some days she wondered how the hell you didn't end up in this line of work sooner.

Your involvement with Zaun made her feel like the mission was being prolonged with your presence, and she made it known with every passing moment the aversion she had reserved for you. You'd believe it if she spent less time staring at your ass when you were tweaking with her mechanical arm.

The small audience that knew of your partnership was often left in question, as they couldn't describe the relationship you had with one another. And fondness wasn't a word they would state it as.

The seamless flirting felt so harmless at first, the prolonged stares. She could tell how she made you feel, and she always refrained from acknowledging it because she wants to fuck you more than she hates you.

And she couldn't tell if that hate was mutual when all you did was toy with her when under pressure. And finally, she gave in to what she knew you both wanted.

You two got caught up when you started bringing up your parents and your involvement with Zaun. You had spent so much time trying to convince her that this wasn't some sort of savior complex moment for you. You had known better than to engage with someone of her stature. You'd be as good as dead. Sevika was impressed with your combat skills, but that fell short once your teeth sunk into her skin. The lust that clouded her eyes was clear as day in yours.

You knew better than to use Silco's desk for anything other than work, but neither cared enough about him to consider that.

You had Sevika right where you wanted her.

Her mechanical arm had you pinned upon Silco's desk. Your breasts were on display, riddled with bites and hickeys; Your bottoms dangled over your ankles, and your undergarments were barely recognizable after Sevika tore them. And you whined under her so desperately.

"What happened to that shit you were talkin' earlier, huh?" She scoffed, her fingers working inside your walls, eager to pull more cries from you. It was embarrassing for her to admit how much pleasure she derived from you crying like a bitch in heat.

You had stopped counting how many times she had made you come at this point. It was constant teasing and banter until you took it upon yourself to rile her up.

"Fuckin' brat, I just knew you'd break.." Her wrist flicked up, her strong arm adjusting your bottom half. The pressure on your clit only intensified once she realized the change in her angle led to finding your spot.

She had slowed down her movements to get a better look at you, and going only slower every time you averted your gaze. She looked down, your fluids soaking her palm. She let out an audible moan when she slowed down to take a better look at the white ring that was forming around her fingers that prodded you. If Sevika knew anything, you hated when she got under your skin, but how much does that matter when she's already gotten in your pants?

Sevika leans forward, peppering kisses across your chest, soothing the love bites she left behind on your neck, leading up to your ear as your body arches to feel her, yearning to be closer. Her breath ghosted over your ear, softly biting the skin. She slowly lifts her body so she can see the torment in your eyes.

"Look at me when you come, doll."

You cried out, tears welling up in your eyes. It was hard for you to form words, incoherent mumbles, and uneven breaths. You were only able to form a string of "fuck" as she abused your puffy clit. Your mind was clouded by lust and yet despite the knot in your stomach once again creating and becoming painful; You took it upon yourself to move your hips to meet the thrusts of her digits.

Sevika clicked her tongue before removing her fingers from your cunt, your remnants coating her fingers and desk. She backs away and turns away from you, wandering off to a dark corner of the office. A loud groan of frustration falls from your lips. Despite your body being pushed to its limits, you felt you could come for her once more than the last. You couldn't remember the last time anyone has fucked you that good, or if anyone even has until she strolled along.

"Following the rules seems to be a tough concept for you."

"You're such an ass" you sneer, sitting up. Your partner seemed to have stopped entertaining you, your hands finding their way to your pussy, frantically searching for its release. Much to your dismay, Sevika was not far away enough to not hear the cries of your pussy.

"I didn't say you could touch yourself."

"Not like you're doing it", you heave. A strong hand had taken hold of yours, halting your movements. You had been too busy trying to chase another orgasm, you hadn't realized Sevika's strap-on was excited to greet you― a thin layer of lube covering it. As prepped as you were, neither of you doubted you took whatever she gave you.

Sevika's stature was much larger than the average woman's, and she could tell how much you enjoyed feeling small under her with every moment she took to hover over you. While her mechanical arm held you up, firmly grasping your ass, the sharp metal, left small scratches on your backside, while her other hand ghosted over your thigh, her orbs remaining on yours. Your bottom lip stuck between your teeth to stifle a moan. You didn't think you'd become much weaker under her than you did at that moment.

Sevika had you right where she wanted you.

You both leaned forward, your chests heaving against each other, and were enveloped in what would be your first kiss. You were messy, and she adored you. Her tongue quickly found its way into your mouth, your lips softly suckling on the flesh as your hips started to grind against her, craving for Sevika to use her toy. She quickly took that into account, but she still had a sliver of pettiness within her.

"Sev..." drawls from your lips. Your only support is your arms upon Silco's desk as Sevika has her bionic arm grasping under you, her other hand wrapped around her neck, forcing you to look at her as she slowly inserts herself inside. Despite your slick being noticeably scattered across Sevika's hands and Silco's desk, you couldn't remember the last time you had something so big inside you. She pushed further, her thumb caressing your cheek, still holding your neck to see you lose any form of restraint you have left.

Sevika had finally removed her hand from your neck, retreating back to your breasts, pinching your nipples between her fingers. Once her length bottomed out, a gasp forced out of you from the sudden probe. Sevika grunts, your weight causing the friction against her clit. Your head flung back, white was the only thing you could see. You could feel the head of her strap probe at your spot once again.

"So fucking sexy...you're mine aren't you?"

You weakly moaned out a yes, too fucked out to even think of a witty comeback. Seeing you this fucked out was a dream before her eyes. Ever since she saw you catch a glimpse of her animosity at the brothel, she had only wondered how much of a beating you could take when she took you to pound town. She placed both of her hands on your hips, a grasp so powerful, that you were more than sure they would leave marks more than she already has.

You felt her hips rut against you, the guttural moan that erupted from your throat felt almost embarrassing. It was unfortunate for you that this was the calm before the storm. Still, Sevika searched your eyes before escalating.

She placed her hand on your stomach, where you could feel her with every thrust, you felt the knot forming faster than you'd had hoped. Your legs had begun to shake, tears prickling at your cheeks once again after Sevika's thumb applies pressure to your clit for the umpteenth time. You felt her bionic arm exert a warm sensation beneath you, only heightening your sensitivity.

"I thought you said you could take it? Be a good little bitch like I told you to."

The grip she had on your hips only tightened, the fervor in her ruts only reaching desperate heights, chasing her own orgasm. Seeing you coming undone like this was heavenly, and she'll never let you live this down.

The sweat beads formed on your forehead, and your body felt like it was on fire. You were reaching the edge, your hips quickly finding Sevika's rhythm, eager to reach ecstasy with her. Your hand intertwined with hers, your gaze never leaving her orbs as you witnessed her coming undone.

She didn't need to be told much else, as you hadn't been able to form coherent sentences after your first nut.

"ah..Sev― I'm gonna"

"Fucking do it", she commands, landing another bite on your neck as you both reached your climax. Her hips hadn't shown any signs of stopping, but her intensity decreased as she guided you through your orgasm.

You were already thinking about the next time she would tear your shit up like this. I think the passions you shared would only be the beginning of a unique relationship.

"Thaaaat's it baby..", she coos, landing kisses on your temple before placing a final one on your lips again. You both moaned at the sight of the aftermath, slowly pulling herself out of you. Her strap coated in your juices, your chest rising, a small chuckle leaving your lips admiring the mess you made. Sevika cackles weakly. She was still working on catching her breath from your physical activity.

Sevika's bionic arm squeaks, some steam erupting from the device. It seems like her new adjustments cause some overheating when exerted too much.

"I can take care of that", you motion toward her arm, slowly walking over to your toolbox, careful not to embarrass yourself from the short distance to acquire your items. From your peripheral, you could see Sevika's smirk, taking amusement from watching you struggle to make it. You finally make it, picking up the heavy box. Sevika took it upon herself to carry you back over to the chair across from the desk.

You took some time to gather yourself while Sevika cleaned up the desk, cautious to make it look as if nothing had taken place moments prior.

Afterward, she plopped next to you, putting her arm on display as you removed her vials.

Despite her ruining you just minutes prior, an awkward silence fell between the two of you. While it started rough, the displays of affection made it feel as if there was something else to explore further.

"Soo..." you start. You could feel her gaze upon you, likely wondering the same thing.

"I'd like to think whatever this is may be worth exploring."

Even if it remained this way, you wouldn't mind, but the moments when you both could hold a conversation, there was something else lingering in the air.

Sevika didn't know how to feel― this was beyond lust, but she didn't want to put other labels on it unless she knew for sure.

"I wouldn't mind exploring this with you", she admits, her hand caressing your thigh, your muscles loosen after the assurance from her, continuing to fix her arm. A small smile forms on your lips, and Sevika follows, averting your gaze. You were eager to tease her again, but that wasn't until Silco walked through the door.

The both of you looked in his direction. While his room looked the same as he left it, he couldn't ignore the stench that invaded his nostrils, including the state of your clothing, the only thing covering you being her cloak. You both felt the glares on you, his teeth gritting through his words of frustration.

"Fucking degenerates.."

― turquoizxe

[sweettea-and-honeybutter]

Take You There III

Song that inspired this chapter...

A/N: Soooo sorry for the wait, life was lifting y'all. Thank you for your patience and for enjoying this story enough to seek more 💕 thanks for coming back to read!! Also please lemme know how you're liking the soundtrack if you're listening to the music while you read 👀 an excerpt from chapter 4 will be at the end of this one!!!

Pairing: Terry Richmond x Reign Adisa (black female OC)

Warning: we gettin a lil spicy, but just a little! Rated-minors fuck off.

Word count: 3,270

Part 1 Part 2 Part 4

Chapter 3

The military was where Terry first felt the sting of disillusionment. He had entered service with a youthful sense of purpose, convinced he was part of something honorable, and prideful that his martial arts expertise qualified him to guide his peers. But stories from fellow soldiers—men and women who came back changed, scarred by the reality of their missions—shattered that idealism, and showed him how spared he was to be kept stateside. The final blow came with his cousin’s death, a casualty not of war but of a system that prioritized power over people. His cousin’s laugh, once bright and infectious, had been silenced by negligence that no amount of money or apologies could ever mend.

Terry carried that betrayal deep in his chest. It made him wary, made him question the intentions behind every offer, every outstretched hand, every good thing. Trusting had cost him too much, and he vowed never to let that happen again. This skepticism seeped into every part of his life; even joy felt like a prelude to loss.

When he met Reign, with her warm eyes and calm energy, it was as if he’d been thrown a lifeline. But she felt too good, too gentle, like something that might be taken from him the moment he allowed himself to believe in it.

The trauma of his cousin's death made it hard for him to believe that good things could be real and lasting. The fear of another betrayal, of life snatching something precious away again, gnawed at him. With Reign, this fear was magnified—she was the first person since that living hell who’d melted his defense with her warm brown eyes, and made him want to trust in something beyond the battle-ready vigilance he had carried for so long.

The thought of Reign being "too good to be true" wasn’t just about her; it was about him grappling with whether he could accept something untainted after years of disillusionment. The fear of losing her, or of her seeing the fractured parts of him and walking away, mirrored the dread he felt watching life slip away from those he’d once admired and loved. But in her, he found something that challenged his narrative: maybe this time, he was allowed to hold on without the ground being pulled out from under him. 

His therapist was impressed. Terry was making immense progress towards healing from ptsd, and he was pleasantly surprised at Reign’s influence over his client, how she managed to infect him with hope and optimism so quickly. But still, Terry’s hesitancy was heartbreaking, and Mr. Shaw hoped he’d get through to Terry before the next time he saw Reign.

“Let me ask you this: what would it mean if you allowed yourself to trust this? To believe that Reign’s presence isn’t a trick or something that’s about to be taken away?”

Terry’s brow furrowed for a moment, and Mr. Shaw could see a flicker of something vulnerable in his eyes even through the computer screen. “It’d mean… it’d mean believing that I deserve to be happy. That maybe I’ve paid my dues, that life will take it easy on me for a second. But that’s a scary thought to have Doc.”

Mr. Shaw leaned closer to his webcam with a soft, encouraging smile. “Healing isn’t linear, Terry. It’s okay to feel scared. But what I’m hearing is that you want this. And maybe, that’s a start. Maybe, it’s worth giving yourself permission to try,” He paused to let Terry ponder over that, and then continued “maybe it's okay to do things scared.”

~~~~~~~

Reign didn’t want Terry to feel like she saw right through him, but she did, because she’d been there before. When she was learning to trust again, learning to live again, she needed patience and grace. She’d needed compassionate lovers that didn’t rush her as she found herself again, and rediscovered her footing in this ever changing world. It was really a hit or miss with her romantic life, but she took the time she needed and was all the better for it.

She found it endearing, and intoxicating, that Terry wanted to try with her, and was so genuine about his intentions. She respected that he wanted her to take the lead, it forced her to be honest with herself, about how deeply she wanted to experience all of him. They took turns texting each other since she last saw him, and she’d even managed to get a few voice notes from him that she saved to her phone to listen to repeatedly like some crushing school girl. 

After 2 days of being sweet with each other and skirting around it, she sent him the coordinates to meet her at, her fingers lingering a bit on her screen before pressing send. There was something thrilling about bringing him to a place she knew he’d enjoy, a space where they could both be in their element. She could already imagine him, standing out against the backdrop of the trees, his easy grin and the way his skin would gleam in the light… She sighed, shaking her head. Her thoughts had really been getting away from her lately.

She was starting to think he was a solo Sunday kind of guy when he texted her back saying he could meet her there in 2 hours. She let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding and smiled, that’s just enough time to get all their goodies and meet him at the nature preserve. 

~~~~~~~

As Terry pulled into the nature park’s parking lot, he turned off the engine and sat in silence for a moment, taking in the sights around him. Towering trees lined the trailheads, their leaves rustling in the warm Texas breeze. He rolled down his window, letting the fresh, earthy smell settle into his senses, grounding him in a way he hadn’t felt in ages. There was something indescribably soothing about this place—the kind of quiet that spoke to his soul without saying a word. It was the type of peace he’d been craving, like a balm on the unspoken worries that still tugged at his spirit.

And Reign had brought him here. She’d chosen a place that would calm his mind and allow him to just… be. The thought stirred something deep inside him, filling him with a sense of gratitude he couldn’t quite put into words. She was learning him so quickly, understanding his needs before he even voiced them, and that alone humbled him. He hadn’t met anyone who listened to him like this, not with her level of intention, of depth. It made him feel more seen than he had in years. He wanted to dedicate his time to learning her just as intuitively, and he would if she let him.

He checked his phone and saw her text again, the cheekiness of it making him chuckle.

"And don’t use the gps to find me, soldier. There are maps outside the welcome center 🫡."

This girl. Every time he thought he had her figured out, she threw him another curveball. And he was learning not to have any expectations for her—she’d surprise him every time, and he loved it. It was refreshing, the thrill of never knowing what she’d do next.

He grabbed one of the trail maps from the welcome center and studied it with growing excitement, tracing the coordinates she’d sent him to a meadow on the far side of the park. Of course, she’d be out in the open, somewhere wild and free. It suited her. And the idea of tracking her down, following the hints she left like breadcrumbs, sparked something almost primal in him. She’d soon learn he loved a good hunt, especially one that led to her.

With a grin, he folded the map and tucked it securely into his heavy backpack before setting off, his steps settling into an easy jog. The landscape opened up around him, sunlight filtering through the trees, and he could already feel that magnetic pull in his chest, that need to be near her. It was undeniable, the way she drew him in, like some force of nature itself. His heartbeat picked up as he neared her coordinates, anticipation mixing with the calmness that only she seemed to bring.

Today, he was more than ready to follow wherever she led him.

~~~~~~~

Terry found her.

She looked like she belonged here, part of the landscape itself—reclining on a blanket she’d spread out for them, nestled between a wall of wildflowers on one side and tall trees on the other. The sun kissed her face whenever a breeze stirred the branches above. Terry held his breath, instinctively raising his phone to capture her just like this: eyes closed, relaxed, her white-painted toes wiggling contentedly in the grass. She was the perfect depiction of serenity. The breeze carried her jasmine scent, mingling with the wildflowers, and he felt his mouth water as a hunger grew within him.

As he edged closer, he took in the way her dark cropped shirt and matching biker shorts hugged her curves. His gaze lingered on her exposed, soft thighs, and he bit his lip, longing to leave a trail of kisses along that smooth skin. He was enraptured, his body pulling him forward of its own accord. Just then, his foot came down on a stick, and it cracked beneath him, snapping her out of her trance.

She sat up quickly, squinting, clearly struggling to make sense of the fuzzy figure approaching. Terry smiled, crouching down beside her, picking up her glasses from the blanket. 

“You really need to be more aware of your surroundings, pretty girl,” he murmured, slipping the frames gently onto the bridge of her nose. His fingers found her braids, smoothing them away from her face as he held her chin, tilting her head up to look at him.

Reign’s lips curved into a soft, easy smile, her hands finding their way to his sturdy thighs, grounding herself in the warmth of him.  A spark danced in her eyes, the playful challenge he’d come to love. She leaned up towards him, her breath a soft whisper against his lips. “You found me,” she teased, voice low, “good boy.”

He blinked, stunned for a moment and dick hardening in response, but then her quick, sticky-sweet kiss left him reeling, wanting more, just as she fell back against the blanket with a mischievous laugh. Terry exhaled, staring down at her, his own laughter echoing hers as he wondered what he’d done to have this beautiful, maddening woman in his life. Shaking his head, he shrugged off his backpack, settling in beside her, his heart feeling lighter the more time he spent with her.

“You didn’t make it hard for me to find you, Reign.” His deep voice wrapped around her name, and she felt a delicious shiver run through her. Trying to disguise her reaction, she rolled onto her side to face him. He’d mimicked her earlier pose, lying on his back with his hands behind his head, biceps flexing, looking effortlessly relaxed. She watched his broad chest rise and fall with each slow inhale, his long lashes fluttering as he watched the drifting clouds. He looked exactly like he did in her secret fantasies.

“I’ll make it harder next time, then,” she teased, before spotting the picnic basket she’d brought. “Oh!” She grinned. “I almost forgot—I brought goodies for us!” Terry’s gaze didn’t waver as he watched her shift positions.

In a bold move, Reign swung herself over him, straddling his hips, settling her weight comfortably against him. Terry tensed beneath her, his eyes darkening. She tried to appear casual, squeezing his hips with her thighs as she busied herself pulling out sandwiches and snacks, chattering about where she got them and how much she hoped he’d like them.

Terry didn’t hear a single word really. She felt so warm on top of him, just like she had on her balcony. And she looked so pretty from this angle, glasses cutely sliding down her nose, braids messily falling in her face. He could imagine how sexily she’d bounce on him, her melodic voice moaning his name, making such a mess with her wet-

“Terry?” her voice and the feeling of her hand softly rubbing up and down his chest snapped his attention back to her. His breathing was stuttered, his eyes cloudy with lust, his hardness pressing right into her clothed center. She tilted her head to the side, almost innocently, and raised a brow with a sweet smile.

“You hungry?” Reign could tell by the dark hue of his eyes that she was playing a dangerous game. Terry moved his hands from behind his head to firmly grip her thighs and hold her steady. She gasped as he rolled his hips up into her, pressing his bulge exactly where she needed him the most. 

“Yes.” His voice was rough, almost a growl, and the single word was packed with layers of meaning. Reign felt her body flush and her shyness return to the surface. She quickly climbed off of him with a nervous laugh and Terry took a deep, calming breath. 

“Great!” Reign’s voice came out squeaky in that way it always does when he left her flustered, “Dig in!”.

~~~~~~~

They ate slowly, savoring both the food and each other’s company. Terry found himself talking more than he had with her before, letting himself be pulled along by Reign’s quiet encouragement, her smile and laughter drawing him further out of his shell. He shared stories from his time in the military, but carefully chose the lighter ones, filled with camaraderie and the kind of loyalty he hadn’t realized he missed so much.

At one point, he caught himself pausing, unsure if he should say what was on his mind. But something about the way Reign looked at him—completely open, with no judgment, just a quiet patience—made him feel like he could keep going.

“You’ve got this aura about you, you know?” His deep voice came out almost shyly, and his piercing eyes took in all of her features. Her laughter bubbled up, soft and genuine, and it settled something deep within him.

“Oh?” she asked, leaning in from where she sat next to him, gently bumping his shoulder encouraging him to continue, her eyes alight with curiosity. “What kind of aura do I have?”

He paused, weighing his words. “It’s like… you quiet all the noise in my head.” He was taken aback by his own honesty. “I haven’t felt that way with anyone else.”

She gave him a smile, taking in every word without interrupting. And the more he spoke, the more he realized how much he wanted her to know—how desperately he wanted her to understand this unspoken connection that he hadn’t been able to put into words.

They fell into easy conversation after that, intimately feeding each other food here and there, and he realized he wanted to know her in ways he hadn’t been interested in knowing anyone else ever—her past, her dreams, the quietest parts of her mind. And he shared just as much with her as she did with him, her questions gentle but curious, drawing out memories and stories he hadn’t thought of in years. He watched her as he spoke, the way her expressions shifted with each story, each reaction giving him a little more permission to let his guard down.

A thought crossed his mind as he looked at her, laughing softly at something he’d just said. He wondered if she realized how rare it was for him to feel this… safe. To feel so seen without the need to shield himself. She was only just beginning to know him, but there was an honesty and ease between them that he was finding harder and harder to resist. 

They found themselves lying side by side again as the sun dipped lower in the sky, casting everything in a golden shine. This time, Terry was propped up on his side, taking in the way her skin seemed to glow in the fading light. Reign stretched out languidly, like a contented cat, her arms reaching above her head, shifting her body just a little closer to his warmth without even realizing it. His eyes traveled over the curve of her torso, drawn to the delicate lotus etched on her ribs. With a gentleness that disguised his hunger for her, he lifted his hand and brushed his knuckles softly over the inked petals, tracing them as if they held a secret meant only for him. 

“I have a confession to make, Reign,” Terry’s voice was a low rumble as his knuckles brushed over her belly button. She squirmed at the tickling sensation, cracking one eye open to give him a suspicious, playful look.

“Well, go on then, Terry. I’m about to explode from the suspense of it all,” she teased, her voice dripping with mock impatience. He clenched his jaw to keep from laughing at her bratty tone—she was such a smart ass.

With a slow, deliberate motion, he flipped his hand, letting his palm settle warmly against her lower tummy, just above the high waistband of her shorts. Reign’s breath caught, and she felt her pulse quicken as both her eyes opened, now fully alert and fixed on him.

“I haven’t been a good boy, actually,” he murmured, his gaze darkening, “not with the thoughts I’ve been having about you.”

The quiet intensity in his voice washed over her, and the heat of his hand was almost burning. Reign’s body responded instantly, a flush of desire spreading like wildfire, making her shift beneath him. “Yeah?” Her voice came out a little breathless, but she didn’t try to hide it, letting the weight of her want show.

Terry nodded with solemn honesty, his gaze unwavering, serious in a way that made her heart thud harder. When it came to her, he wouldn’t lie—not about anything. Reign hummed thoughtfully, her gaze lingering over him as she brought one hand to wrap her fingers around his wrist, guiding his hand down with unhurried purpose. She stopped just as his fingertips brushed under the band of her shorts and panties.

“Feel me.” Reign’s tone left no room for argument, not that Terry even wanted to protest in the first place. His long fingers eased their way lower, feeling the smooth skin and small tuft of soft hair, his watchful eyes locked on hers the entire time. He let out a low groan when he felt how hot and slick she was, his fingers easily slipping around her hard nub causing her lashes to flutter before she focused her gaze on him again.

“I’ve been having those same thoughts Terry.” Her sweet voice was deeper now, and Terry felt himself pulse under the layers of constricting clothes he had on. Reign’s breath hitched as she felt his thick fingertips make another circle around her clit, drawing more wetness from her. 

“We should stop thinking so hard then, pretty girl.” Terry gently pulled his hand out from the tempting oasis between her thighs, and she watched awestruck as he sucked her sweetness clean off of his fingers, a pleasure filled rumble leaving his chest. “We can finish this at my place-” Reign was already sitting up before he could finish, haphazardly throwing shit in the picnic basket causing Terry to let out a hearty laugh at her eagerness.

***

An excerpt from chapter 4...

“I’ve been wanting to be here…” his voice husky from his visceral need for her, and Reign's moans increased in volume at how she could somehow feel his voice in the depth of her being, right where his tip repeatedly kissed her cervix. 

“…in this moment with you, for too long Reign.” He could hardly speak, the feeling of her warm pussy squeezing around him in response to his words, it was too much. Reign moaned louder, eyes shut tightly at his increased thrusting, getting lost in all he was giving her. 

“Don’t hold back shit from me, baby girl. Give me everything.” 

~~~~~~~

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[harrywavycurly]

Hey I loved the bachelorette party in Malibu for Lonley series but can u do one where Harry has a bachelor party and yn stuck at home please I’m obbsed 😂💕

Hiii lovey!!! I’m glad you enjoy the series!!! I hope you like this, it was fun to write because the difference in how the two of them handle time away from each other is very funny😂💖

Find all things Lonely series here✨

CW: Language and mentions of drinking

Tag List: @blckburd @fangirl509east @ell0ra-br3kk3r @youngpastafanmug @mattieshattuck1

A/N: Harry is away for his bachelor party weekend while you’re at home and you get a surprise visitor, enjoy drunk Harry as well as some classic bestie banter✨

You let out a sigh of content as you get comfortable on the couch before bringing your coffee mug up to your lips so you can take a sip, the house is quiet minus the gentle humming sound of the ice maker in the kitchen and the air conditioning that kicks on every now and then and you can’t help but sit there and enjoy the peacefulness of the quiet, at least while you can. You look at the clock on the wall in the kitchen and know that Harry should be landing in Vegas soon, Gemma having booked a morning flight so she could get in a few hours at the spa and a well timed nap before the nighttime festivities begin, most of which you have no idea about minus one little detail but that’s only because she drunkenly let it slip during your bachelorette trip a month ago.

You smile at the thought of Harry being surprised with a spa day, something you know he enjoys and will help him relax and the more relaxed he gets the more fun he will have as the evening goes on. That’s the thing with this weekend, you truly want Harry to have fun because he’s been spending way too much time fussing over you and the upcoming wedding recently that a night out without anything or anyone to worry about is what he deserves. And even though you had to practically drag him down the front steps to the car that was taking him to the airport this morning because he was “gonna miss you too much” and almost bought you a ticket on the spot to join him in Vegas, you know he’s going to end up having a good time.

You take another sip of your coffee when suddenly you hear a light beeping sound signaling to you that your front gate has been opened. You raise an eyebrow as you quickly lean over and place your mug on the coffee table before standing up and heading towards the kitchen so you can look at the fancy little tablet that shows all the security cameras, something Harry made sure to show you how to use before he left since this is technically your first time alone overnight in the house since moving in together. You mentally prepare yourself to see the same black SUV you watched him leave in this morning pulling into the driveway, but when you look at the screen you scrunch your brows together and bring the tablet closer to your face to get a better look at the car.

“What the-”

“Your fuckin’ gate hates me.” You look up from the tablet in your hands as Niall walks through your front door with a duffle bag. “I type in the code it gets all mad and beeps at me so then I type it in again and then it flashes red at me. So then I do it a third-why the bloody hell you got that thing so close to your face? You going blind or somethin?” He stops in the doorway of the kitchen with a slight look of concern on his face as his eyes land on you standing in the middle of the kitchen still holding the tablet a few inches from your face trying to see if that really is Niall’s car in your driveway or not.

“What are you doing here?” You watch him roll his eyes as he walks through the kitchen and into the living room where he drops his duffle bag down behind the couch.

“I live here.” Is all he says as he heads back into the kitchen and grabs himself a mug before going to the coffee pot. You just place the tablet back down onto the counter as you watch Niall make his way around the kitchen while making his coffee.

“Does my fiancé know that?” You ask with a hint of playfulness because you know Harry would have a field day if he heard Niall tell you he lived here, having reached a whole new level of jealousy ever since the two of you got engaged when it comes to your friendship with Niall.

“Oh what that lanky lad doesn’t know won’t hurt him. Besides it’s just for the weekend because I know he’s gone and you’ve never been alone here before so figured you could use the company.” You know he’s leaving something out as he gives his coffee a good stir before taking a sip of it all while looking everywhere but at you in the process.

“You didn’t get invited did you?” Niall’s face drops as he places his mug on the counter and lets out a sad dramatic sigh making you have to hold back a laugh.

“No.” He says with a groan. “Gem said she didn’t wanna risk Harry not having as good of a time with me there because he might be worried I’d run off and tell you everything but we both know that’s a load of bull because the man is gonna end up drunk off his ass by ten tonight and callin you up and telling on his own fucking self.” You put a hand over your mouth to try to hide your laughter but it’s no use because Niall just rolls his eyes as he grabs his mug and heads towards the living room.

“So you decided coming over here for the weekend was the best alternative?” You question as you follow him into the living room. He just shrugs as he sits down on the couch, placing an arm on the back of it so you can sit next to him and lean into his side for a little cuddle that you know he needs more than you do in this very moment.

“I figured no use in both of us being home alone when we could just be in your house together eating all Harry’s snacks and watching trashy telly.” You smile and you rest your head on Niall’s shoulder as he brings his mug up to his lips. “This coffee is gonna keep me awake for a week you absolute caffeine fiend.” He teases before taking another sip. “Tastes good though.” He mumbles as you reach for the remote so you can turn the tv on allowing the two of you to start your day of watching horrible reality television.

“If she picks him then it proves she’s just after his money because it’s clear she doesn’t even like him she just tolerates him.” You huff as you cross your arms over your chest in annoyance making Niall let out a laugh from the kitchen.

The two of you have spent the day and a good portion of the evening watching some dating show and only have one episode left so Niall decided it was only fitting he make some cocktails to go with watching the finale and honestly having put up with the dramatics of the show and watching the main woman send home people the two of you thought were decent catches has made him need a drink or two. He is in the middle of squeezing a lime into your glass when he hears the sound of something vibrating against the marble of your kitchen counter, he raises an eyebrow when he notices your phone sitting there plugged into a charger near the coffee maker. Now Niall has been your bestfriend for quite a while, so he’s no stranger to checking your phone for you so he doesn’t think twice before he’s drying his hands off and walking over to see who’s messaging you but what he sees on your lock screen makes his eyes go wide.

“You have forty six unread-sorry now it’s forty seven unread texts? What the hell? Oh fuck now it’s fifty.” You let out a sigh as your head falls to the back of the couch while Niall unplugs your phone from the charge and heads into the living room with it in his hand.

“I don’t want to respond because then he’ll keep texting me and I want him to have fun and not be thinking about me.” Niall would agree that in theory your plan would work on anyone else but this is Harry you’re talking about and he knows how obsessed the man is with you and clearly based on the evidence of the amount of texts he’s sent without a single response from you, your plan is in fact not working.

“Right well I think that’s sweet and all that you want him to have fun but looking at these-uh he seems a bit stressed? Like proper freaking out.” You sit up and turn to look at Niall as he begins to read some of the texts Harry has sent and when you watch him roll his eyes you know they are probably a bit on the dramatic side. “Oh he’s totally drunk off his ass and it’s not even half past eleven.” He states as he scrolls down towards the last few messages he sent you.

“What’s he stressed-”

“And now he’s FaceTiming you.” You stand up and walk around the couch and reach for your phone but Niall just gives you a playful smirk and you instantly know what he’s about to do.

“Niall do not answer that.” You warn as you hold your hand out for him to hand you the phone but Niall just ignores you as he heads back into the kitchen and holds the phone up before he answers Harry’s FaceTime call.

“Baby-what the fuck’er you doin in my house?” Harry’s voice is low and a bit rougher than normal and you immediately know he’s working his way towards a nice buzz. “Why do you have my wife’s phone?” Niall rolls his eyes as he places your phone against the sink so he can go back to fixing the two of you some drinks.

“She’s not your wife yet mate and I’m here because that sister of yours didn’t invite me to your little weekend away so I came here to keep my bestfriend company.” You run a hand over your face as you hear Harry let out a groan at Niall’s correction of him calling you his wife.

“You don’t like spa days so you’d’ve hated it so far.” Niall sends Harry a glare as he grabs the bottle of tequila making Harry raise an eyebrow at him when he watches him pour more than a shots worth into each glass. “You tryin’a get her drunk?” He asks as you stand on the other side of the island watching Niall make your drink and making sure Harry can’t see you, at least not yet.

“You’re in the city of sin and all you’ve done is have a bloody spa day? God you’re such an eighty year old nan.” You can’t help but laugh making Niall shoot you a playful wink but that only causes Harry to let out a whine like noise because he can hear you but can’t see you which makes Niall roll his eyes. “I can’t with the sad puppy noises you’ve got to take him.” Niall says as he picks up the phone with one hand and hands it to you but with the screen still facing him. You send him a glare before you stick your tongue out at him making him laugh before he returns the gesture.

“I don’t want to see your tongue Niall-”

“Hi Harry.” You watch Harry’s face go from disgust to pure happiness in a matter of seconds when you turn the phone around allowing him to finally see your face.

“Baby I’m so happy you’re alive.” You just ignore Niall’s laugh as you make your way back into the living room to get comfortable on the couch. “You ignored me all day and s’not nice to ignore someone you love.” His voice is a mixture of playfulness and a bit of sadness as he pokes his bottom lip out in a dramatic pout.

“I wanted you to worry about having fun not about what I’m doing.” You explain as you take a moment to try to get a decent look at him through the screen but the way he has his phone in his hand all you can see is his face and a bit of the collar of his shirt. “Where are you right now?” You ask when you notice red strobe lights in the background, Harry turns his head and looks around as if he’s looking for the name of the establishment on the walls or anywhere near where he’s currently at.

“Uhm m’not sure? S’a bit dark in here but the people are very lovely.” You smile at the blush that appears on his cheeks as his eyes wonder over to something that’s going on in front of him that you can’t see.

“That’s code for the girls are topless and the tits are nice.” Niall whispers in your ear as he leans over the back of the couch to hand you your drink, you just laugh but Harry even in his half drunken state heard Niall’s little joke and sends him a glare through the screen.

“He said people so I’m assuming it’s not just girls in this club.” You explain and Niall just shrugs as he takes a sip of his drink.

“Right so the guys are brief-less and the cocks are decent.” You nearly choke on the sip of your drink that’s in your mouth at Niall’s statement making him laugh as he reaches over and rubs your back a bit. “Jesus no wonder you two are getting married. Neither of you can handle your liquor.” He teases before he heads back into the kitchen to give you and Harry a few minutes alone.

“Harry why don’t you go and enjoy yourself? You can call me in the morning if you want?” You don’t want to sound rude but you know if you don’t get him off the phone soon then odds are you’ll be on FaceTime with him for the next few hours or until Gemma notices and takes things into her own hands.

“I took s’mthing of yours to help me get through the weekend without you.” Harry admits quietly as he looks around as if to make sure no one is looking before he reaches into his suit jacket pocket, you feel your whole face get hot when he shows you what he took of yours and you silently thank your lucky stars Niall decided to go back into the kitchen. “They’ve helped so far but still miss you.” He adds as he clutches the item in his hand while staring at you through the phone.

“You are such a freak.” Harry just shrugs one shoulder and gives you a sneaky little smirk as he begins to put the object pack into his pocket.

“Tell me those aren’t your knickers he’s shoving back into this pocket like some sort of sicko.”

“M’not a sicko for having a pair of my fiancé’s-”

“Do not finish that sentence Harry Styles you are in public.” You hear a scoff come from behind you while Harry also makes a similar sounding noise making you send Niall who’s now resting his forearms on the back of the couch next to where you’re sitting, a glare over your shoulder before looking back at your phone to give Harry the same look.

“Babe he’s surrounded by bouncing boobs and swinging pricks you think anyone’s gonna give a rats ass if he’s got some worn out knickers in his sleeve?” You scrunch your nose at Niall’s choice of words regarding your undergarments making Harry chuckle.

“How’d ya know they’re worn? You been in my nightstand you wonky kneed twat?”

“You have a panty stash in your nightstand you lanky fuck?”

“And if I do? S’none of your concern you hobbit sized asshole.”

“Ya know for a family all about treat people with kindness you Styles lot sure love to be mean as fuck to the Irish fella who’s job it is to make sure your beloved future bride makes it down the aisle.”

“The bloody hell s’that ‘posed to mean?” You let out a sigh as you just sit there and let the two of them argue as you normally do, knowing that eventually you’ll have to step in but for right now it hasn’t reached the level of any serious feelings getting hurt. Harry’s eyes are a light shade of red and his cheeks are pink letting you know his drinks are starting to catch up to him.

“It means that you overgrown toddler of a man best start being nicer to me or I might just have her accidentally get lost on the way to the venue or better yet just let her sleep in and be so late you’ll have to cancel the whole thing and reschedule it for next-”

“Okay that’s enough.” You snap when you see Harry’s eyes start to get watery as Niall’s threat starts to sink into Harry’s slightly alcohol clouded mind. “Niall go into the kitchen and make me a snack please.” He just lets out a huff but he does what you say because he can tell by your tone that you’re in no playing mood and besides he is starting to feel a bit hungry himself.

“I don’t want to reschedule.” You feel your heart sink a bit at how sad Harry’s voice is as he looks at you with a frown.

“We aren’t rescheduling anything Harry he’s just being mean that’s all.” You give him a reassuring smile that just makes him nod. “I love you and I want you to go and have fun okay? Do some weird stuff and tell me all about it when you get home or if you don’t want to-”

“M’gonna call you in the morning.” He corrects you and you just smile at his face because you know he’s trying his best to look serious but he’s failing due to the corners of his mouth pulling up into a smile. “I love you so so-so fucking much even though you ignored me.” He half mumbles and you can’t help but giggle at how cute he is when he’s drunk and trying so hard to keep it together.

“I love you too.” He gives you a dimpled grin at your response. “Now go have fun or I won’t answer your call tomorrow.” You know it’s probably not nice to threaten him but you figure it’s a good way to get him to actually do what you want and by the way he rolls his eyes and lets out a huff you know it works.

“Fine I’ll go and find m’sister and have fun.” He says with a sigh while you smile and blow him a kiss before saying you love him one more time and ending the call.

“Has he always been so damn needy?” Niall asks as you walk into the kitchen with your drink in your hand. You just shrug as you take a sip while you take a seat on one of the barstools at the kitchen island so you can watch Niall cook, he decided a proper meal was what the two of you needed not just a lousy snack since there’s still a dating show finale to watch.

“I don’t know but I also don’t mind.” You answer with a smile making Niall quirk a brow at you as he stirs in the cheese sauce for the Mac and cheese. “I’m happy to be the one he needs.” And it’s the truth because while Harry might be overly clingy and a tad bit more needy than he normally was when the two of you were just friends, you love being the one he wants to cling to and feels the urge to be needy with because it shows the shift that’s taken place and how in love with you he actually is.

[damneddamsy]

second sight | cregan stark x oc (part x)

a/n: I'm bawling on today's last official episode of Stark-fluff. legit bawling as I type this. you spoiled shits are getting babies and so much love. I love these two so much, here is their much-deserved happy ending :)

The dawn stretched thin fingers across Winterfell’s courtyard, filtering through the smoky haze that lingered from battle. Survival hung in the air—fierce, unbreakable, and filling the early light with a kind of stubborn hope.

Claere paused just outside the doorway, her hand hovering against the wood. She let the silence settle over her, breathing in the mingling scents of herbs, iron, and smoke that still clung to the walls. Relief settled in first, grounding her, but it was quickly edged with something unexpected—an almost reverent pride. She’d heard the soldiers talk of Cregan’s perseverance in the fight, how he had defended Winterfell like he’d been forged for it, and now, here he was, alone in their chamber, mending himself as if he’d done it a thousand times.

Her heart swelled as she took in the scene. He sat half-lit by the dim morning light, his shoulders tensed as he worked the needle and thread, pulling a gash closed with painstaking focus. Bruises darkened his skin, raw reminders of the battle, while the wound stretched and tugged with each attempt. The basin of water at his feet and the bloodied rag tossed aside told her he’d even dismissed the maester. Typical.

As though sensing her, he looked up, catching her watching from the doorway. The frustration melted from his face, replaced by that familiar glint of warmth in his eyes.

“Come to check on the fool who stitches himself, have you?” he murmured, setting the needle aside with a wince as his hands reached for her, his gaze softening as it fell on her bare, bruised wrists.

“I didn’t want them fussing over me like a babe,” he muttered, his thumb brushing over the marks left by Luna’s reins, handling her injuries as if they mattered more than the blood drying on his own skin.

“What was the damage?” she asked, her voice soft as his fingers hovered over her wrists.

“A few Norrey men. Closest to the fire,” he replied, still focused on her hands.

She met his gaze, lifting a brow. “I meant you.”

His mouth tugged into a rueful smirk. “A scratch or two,” he replied, though the tension around his eyes betrayed him. He chucked her chin lightly. “Only you’re allowed to coddle me.”

With a gentle hold, he lifted her hand, his thumb tracing the bruises on her wrist. For a moment, the battle’s toll fell away, leaving just the two of them, here, safe.

“You held those reins like a vice,” he muttered.

“And you,” she countered, “should be tending to your own wounds, not mine.”

She allowed him to keep hold of her hand, taking in the bruises and scrapes, and feeling a swell of gratitude as he continued his inspection despite his obvious pain.

With a quiet chuckle, he flinched as it jarred his ribs, then shook his head. “Can’t have you bruised for the whole of Winterfell to see, can I?”

She took in every scrape and bruise, tracing the mottled shades of blue and red with her gaze before gesturing to the chair behind him. “Sit. Let me help before you stitch yourself to ribbons.”

Though he grumbled, he did as she asked, sinking back into the chair with a sigh. Claere knelt by his legs, gently taking his arm to examine the wound he’d been trying to stitch. The axe had cut him clean, the edges already darkening around the gash.

“It’ll scar,” she said softly.

“Good,” he replied with a glint of pride. “When anyone asks, I’ll tell them it was from fighting for my lady.”

A faint smile crossed her lips as she dipped her fingers into the balm. With practised ease, she settled onto his thigh, feeling him tense as her hands pressed over the raw flesh of his ribs, tracing the edges of the wound with delicate care.

Cregan stiffened beneath her, a wry smile tugging at his lips despite the wince the movement sent through him.

“Steady now, my lady,” he murmured, capturing her wrist. “You sit this close while I’m in this state… we may soon find ourselves in a different sort of position.”

She lifted a cool, unimpressed brow, gently freeing her wrist from his grasp as she leaned in and continued her work, dabbing balm with the same cool precision. His words fell away, met with her customary indifference. She didn’t even spare him a glance, though his smirk grew as her fingers worked down his bruised arms with her unfailing calm.

Unfazed, he tilted forward, brushing his battered lips against her cheek, trailing a line down to her neck, his roughened breath warm against her skin. She allowed the light pressure of his lips on her jawline, not so much as flinching as he pressed a lingering kiss there. Her focus stayed on his bruised forearms, ignoring the warmth he radiated as if her heart hadn’t leapt a little at his touch. Her hands kept on, gently covering each bruise, each scrape—unmoved by his insistence.

But suddenly, her hands paused. Her gaze drifted down to his calloused hands, her fingers stilling over his. “I’ve granted the wildlings a place on our land,” she said, her tone even, the words carrying a weight they both felt.

Cregan pulled back slightly, meeting her eyes with a mix of surprise and pride. He didn’t hesitate, though—just nodded with calm conviction. “Alright.”

Claere blinked, studying his face, taken aback by his immediate acceptance. “Alright?” she echoed.

His mouth softened into a smile, one so warm and knowing it reached his eyes, and he brushed a stray wisp of her hair back. “Aye, my love. You’ve spoken as Winterfell’s lady, as the shield and keeper of its walls. If this is your will, then it’s thought through, and it’s wise.”

There was pride in his gaze, as unshakable as the stone of Winterfell’s walls. Her breath caught, seeing herself reflected in his eyes not as a Targaryen but as a woman who held the North’s fate in her hands, and it struck her to the core. His approval wasn’t mere agreement; it was reverence, the kind a lord offers his queen.

Cregan’s fingers trailed slowly up her back, and he drew her close, resting his forehead against hers. “You know,” he murmured, his voice dipping low, “I think I’m a little in awe of you.”

“You're the first.”

A soft huff of laughter escaped her, though her gaze softened as Cregan’s fingers brushed slowly up her back, his touch warm and steady even as his voice took on a more serious edge.

“What if I hadn’t come back?” he asked quietly, words heavy in the space between them. “If Sylas had struck true, had plunged his axe into my throat… what then, Claere?”

She stilled, meeting his gaze, but he didn’t look away, didn’t let the question rest unanswered. “Would you go back south? Mourn alone?” he pressed, his voice soft and deadly serious. “There’d be no more Starks here, no other bonds tying you to Winterfell.”

For a moment, there was nothing but the crackle of the distant hearth, and the faint hum of the waking castle outside. Then Claere’s voice slipped through the silence, quiet and resolute.

“Then I would rule in your name.” She held his gaze with power as tireless as his own. “I'd live out my days as a Stark til my end, no matter what your people say.”

X

The crypts of Winterfell were cloaked in shadow, their familiar chill hanging heavy in the air. Tyrion’s torchlight flickered against the ancient stone, casting wavering shadows over rows of solemn, worn statues—the Stark dead, silent witnesses in the depths.

They paused before a statue near the end of the line, where Cregan Stark stood in sombre effigy, a likeness of power and steely will carved in the weathered stone. At his side, in an uncustomary break from Stark tradition, was another statue—a woman whose regal features were captured with remarkable care: Claere Stark. Or perhaps more fittingly, Claere Velaryon. Though she had not been of the North, her statue rested beside Cregan’s as if by some ancient right.

Tyrion’s gaze lingered on Claere’s statue, marvelling how the sculptor had chiselled his devotion for her, as though she held a silent mystery even in stone. There she stood, not just beside Cregan, but as if guarding him in death as fiercely as she had in life. It struck him that Claere wasn’t even a Stark by birth, yet here she was, given the rarest honour.

"The fire of Old Valyria and the Winter's Queen,” Tyrion murmured, almost to himself, a small, wry smile tugging at his lips.

The stories of her life unfurled in his mind. He’d read about her and pored over accounts that painted her as a legend—a woman of fire and ice, Targaryen and yet something new. And her mighty dragon, the White Dread—Luna. The beast with scales like frost and flame, so fearsome in its majesty that even Northerners had spoken of it in whispers. Claere had been the first rider to take her dragon beyond the Wall, to ride over that barren, haunted wilderness with nothing but Luna’s wings carrying her, blazing trails through skies no other dragon had ever dared to reach.

"Have you heard of her, Lord Tyrion?”

Tyrion steadied himself, recovering from Sansa’s unexpected question with a small laugh, his eyes drifting back to Claere’s statue.

“Claere Stark,” he said, “I'd be a fool not to know her tale.”

X

The hall at Winterfell brimmed with the scent of roasted game and the crackling warmth of hearthfires. Spiced wine flowed as freely as water, and clashing tankards rose in steady cadence to songs sung in the old Northern tongue. The tables were heavy with bread, venison, and thick stews, a reminder that victory lay upon death. Meat fat glistened on plates as Cregan’s men devoured their food, their laughter spilling over one another’s voices. Wildling bodies were still burning in the woods beyond the walls, but here, their voices rose in songs for their Lord and Lady, even as the night grew late.

But Cregan's smile was worn thin, forced. The seat beside him remained empty, the absence of Claere more palpable than any wound he bore.

Oh, howl for the wolf, howl strong and bold!

His fangs to guard the keep!

“They celebrate the deaths by my hand,” she had told him when he had invited her to join the feast in the hall. “That is no celebration at all.”

They hailed Cregan, lifting their tankards to the “King in the North.” Then, with fervour, they cheered for the “Winter’s Queen,” their voices rising in earnest. She, who had taken to the skies with fire in her veins, commanded their respect now. All around him, he heard fragments of praise murmured to Claere, a reverence that they had been slow to bestow on her Targaryen blood.

“She was born to this,” a stout lord from the Barrowlands muttered to his neighbour. “She held her own like the Starks before her.”

Cregan took a slow drink of his ale, his eyes darkening as he listened. Now they speak of her as though she is their kin, he thought. Only days before, these same men had muttered of Claere’s “Southron blood,” questioning her loyalty, her fire. Now that they had witnessed her force, they bent their knee as if her worth had suddenly doubled. It was as though they’d forgotten their suspicion, bowing as if she had been born among them as if she was a Stark of old. Hypocrites, he thought with a simmering, silent disdain.

With another courteous grimace, he pushed back from the table. He’d had enough of these men’s fleeting gratitude. Let them toast and sing all they wished; he had no patience for it.

As Cregan limped toward his bedchambers, he barely registered the ache of his broken ribs or the gash that had opened anew beneath his shirt. He only wanted to be away from the empty revelry, the shallow praise ringing out for a battle that had nearly cost them dearly.

Footsteps pattered behind him, quick and hesitant. A young Norrey squire—a lad scarcely sixteen, bruises still smeared across his cheeks like war paint—caught up to him, eyes wide with worry. In his trembling hands was a sealed parchment, its edges marked by the red emblem.

“My lord, this—” the boy hesitated, glancing at the missive. “A letter, from King’s Landing. For Lady Stark.”

Cregan took it, his fingers brushing over the mark of the three-headed dragon, one that he recognized instantly.

The boy watched him expectantly, lingering for any acknowledgement, any glimpse of what lay within. Cregan met his eyes, his tone low. “Get yourself back to the hall, lad. Take a drink or three. You’ve earned it tonight.”

The squire opened his mouth as if to protest, his curiosity plainly written on his face, but one look from Cregan silenced him. The boy nodded, then darted back down the corridor, leaving Cregan alone with the sealed letter and his doubts.

Once the boy’s footsteps faded, he turned the letter over, studying the heavy wax. He knew he shouldn’t, knew it wasn’t meant for his eyes—yet the words of her mother, the queen, were not something he could ignore.

His fingers found the seal, and with a sharp snap, he broke it, unfolding the parchment to reveal the message inside. His eyes scanned the words, tightening with each line.

My dearest Claere,

I wish to speak plainly to you, daughter—I miss you. I admit that, though our time together has felt like an echo from the past, we have not shared sentiments often. I ask not for forgiveness, but for some more time. The hours drift heavily here, and your absence weighs more than I’d like to confess. Not a day goes by without Joff wishing to fly North to see you. Luke yearns to hear your harp when sleep evades him. These rumours of northern threats beyond the Wall trouble me deeply; I pray you are well-shielded. I trust in your lord husband's prowess and familiarity in dealing with such a crisis. Be that as it may, the White Dread was chosen for my little girl, and I expect Luna to guard you as fiercely as I would. If only I could be there. If only you were here. If only you would return... King's Landing is silent without your music. Be safe, always. Please come home when you can.

All my love, Mummy.

Cregan scanned the short letter, his brow knitting at the unfamiliar, graceful hand, and then he saw the name at the end: Mummy. It was a simple word, yet it carried the weight of something far larger—a reminder that Claere, fierce and untouchable as she seemed, belonged to more than Winterfell, that her blood tied her to a family who loved her and feared for her in ways he could never fully understand.

The words were plain, unadorned by politics or courtly flourishes. A mother missed her daughter deeply, openly. It was a rare, raw honesty—one that cut through the cold air and slipped like a dagger into his own misgivings. They would always want her back, wouldn’t they?

Cregan’s mouth softened into a quiet smile, one not often seen on him, as the unguarded sentiment of the letter eased something unspoken within him. He could see her, the Queen, imagining Claere’s presence in King’s Landing as though it were sunlight that could return to warm her halls.

And then, wordlessly, Cregan folded the letter back over itself, his fingers lingering on the delicate, foreign script. He looked into the flame of the nearest candle, watching it flicker and dance with a steady hunger.

He brought the letter closer, not out of spite, nor from any possessiveness. She was his wife, the Lady of Winterfell now. She belonged here, to the people of this North they’d pledged to protect together. No one, not even the Queen, could call her back south as though she were some visiting sparrow, blown north on the wind.

Without another thought, he fed the letter to the flame, watching the edges curl and blacken until the words vanished in the embers. The sentiment would remain, but it needn’t haunt her. If Claere wished to write to her mother, she would. But he would see to it that no one willed her away from her place here.

X

As the North endured its second endless winter, Claere had become a constant warmth within Winterfell’s ancient stone walls. Under her touch, even the frosty Glass Gardens thrived, their flowers and hardy herbs reaching toward the faintest glimmers of sunlight that pierced through the thick, grey clouds. Those who had once eyed her “Valyrian witch-ness” now found themselves drawn to the quiet strength that seemed to emanate from her, as enduring as the snows. It wasn’t just her presence that had transformed Winterfell—it was the way she softened its cold edges, threading warmth and peace through a place of ancient, unyielding stone.

On this particular morning, a group of young women and children gathered around her as she knelt beside a plot of hardy winter herbs. They were bundled in thick wool and furs, their cheeks ruddy from the cold that lingered in the air despite the shelter. Her hands worked deftly, and with a few murmured instructions, the ladies and children followed suit, gingerly reaching to touch the silvery-green leaves and rich soil beneath.

“Careful with that one,” Claere murmured, glancing up at a wide-eyed girl who had eagerly plucked too hard at a sprig of sage. “It bruises easy. Think of it like… well, like a kitten,” she said, her expression gentle. “You don’t hold a kitten like a sword, do you?”

The girl giggled, her hands softening at once, and a ripple of laughter ran through the group.

One of the older women—a stout, spirited lady from Wintertown—leaned closer, her eyes twinkling. “And here I thought you only knew how to keep dragons,” she teased, holding up a plucked stem with exaggerated delicacy. “I don’t suppose there’s a dragon-sized watering can hidden here, is there?”

Claere’s lips quirked, a faint smile breaking through her usual composed expression. “A dragon can be a bit impatient for that,” she said, glancing out toward the sky as if she could glimpse Luna hovering above. “I think the herbs would have much to fear if Luna were here to tend to them.”

Her joke, dry as it was, sparked laughter around the little circle, and the ladies exchanged knowing glances. They hadn’t seen this side of her often—a hint of playfulness, a softening of her typically solemn gaze. That was carefully tucked away for her husband. It was as though Winterfell had unlocked something within her, a part of her that even she hadn’t known could flourish here in the frozen North.

One of the children tugged at her sleeve, peering up at her with wide eyes. “Lady Claere, does Luna like sage too?” he asked, half-believing that her dragon might sneak into the gardens for a nibble.

Claere looked down, arching a delicate brow as if pondering the question with great seriousness.

“Oh, she does,” she said at last, with a solemn nod. “But only on special occasions. Perhaps if you listen very closely next time, you’ll hear her roaring approval.”

The children’s laughter rang out as they exchanged delighted glances, enchanted by the thought. “Luna the Herb Dragon!”

Winter might reign outside, bitter and endless, but within these walls, Claere had brought a touch of spring. As she returned to her work, she noticed how the women and children moved around her with gentleness and reverence, as though something sacred lived within the soil of these gardens.

Yet, as much as Winterfell had warmed to her, Claere remained just a little apart from the world around her. Hiding in plain sight. Her rhythms were her own; she moved in the night, a lone figure tracing the silent halls or slipping through the gardens as though she communed with the very roots of the castle. Her soft, unearthly songs drifted through the corridors like a balm, weaving into the silence, and at times it felt as though the stones themselves listened, her voice soothing the ancient shadows within them. At first, her night wanderings had unsettled the Northmen—they had seen her as strange, perhaps even touched by some kind of magic. But in time, her strangeness became familiar, her presence like an old, comforting tale whispered through Winterfell.

Cregan knew her better than anyone. He lay awake on those nights, waiting for the familiar sound of her steps, the soft murmur of her voice drifting through the dark. Her habits delighted him now, even as they stirred a strange, gentle ache in his heart. To him, she was always a marvel, something fragile and fierce, woven from both ice and flame. When he heard her moving through their chambers one winter’s night, he felt the faintest tug of worry—she wasn’t sleeping again, even on a night as bone-deep cold as this.

Rising from bed, he watched her for a moment, noting the faraway look in her eyes as she slipped toward the door, muttering faintly about the cold. It was as if some part of her was still dreaming, lost in a place only she could see.

He reached out, catching her gently by the arm. “Where are you going, love, hm?”

She blinked, looking up at him with hazy, half-lidded eyes, but said nothing, only murmured something soft, half to herself. “They're waiting in the Godswood. They're waiting for him.”

“Well, you can't be late,” he played along.

A sleepy smile tugged at the corner of his mouth; she was barely aware of him. He could have insisted she go back to bed and pulled her close, but he knew her too well. This was Claere—the woman who found solace in the moonlight and sang lullabies to the night itself.

He knelt before her, his hands steady as he reached for her bare feet. The chill in her skin made his brows knit, a fleeting twinge of worry threading through his affection. Still, he said nothing, only holding her ankle as he slipped on one of her shoes, then the other, his touch lingering a moment too long, feeling the frailness of her bones beneath his fingers.

“There. Now you can wander all you want,” he murmured, his voice soft with tenderness, a faint smile breaking through his concern. He brushed a thumb against her ankle, gently, as if to tether her to him before he let her go.

He rose to his feet, letting his hand linger on her shoulder as she drifted past him, her gaze already turning away. He stayed by the door, watching her until her figure melted into the shadows, her voice carrying through the silence, low and unhurried.

“Dreamy girl,” he muttered.

His heart swelled with a fierce, helpless love that no words could ever name. Claere—who was more like a dream than anyone he had ever known. Claere, who had brought him laughter, warmth, and mystery in equal measure.

As he returned to bed, he laughed quietly to himself. Settling back under the furs, he closed his eyes, a soft smile playing on his lips. This winter might be full of long, dark nights, but Claere’s warmth, her fire, was his own light in the cold.

What Cregan had not anticipated was how the stillness would settle over him that second winter. Two years. Nearly two years, and still, Claere’s belly remained unchanged, her slender form untouched by the promise of new life, her beauty as unmarred as the fresh snows in Winterfell’s courtyard each dawn.

Every night he held her, careful and considerate, as if she were made of something rare and breakable. But no amount of care or reverence had yielded the result he craved. His mind circled back on itself, questioning, doubting. Had he not proven himself worthy of her? Was he lacking in some way? He kept her well-fed, saw to her health, and watched as she grew stronger, more radiant—but that was not enough. Could it be him?

Swallowing his pride, he had sought counsel from the maester. The old man, wise and accustomed to all manner of concerns, had looked at him with a wry glint in his eye, perhaps a touch amused by Cregan’s uncharacteristic hesitancy.

“Take heart, my lord,” Maester Kennet had said, adjusting the weight of his maester’s chain. “There are herbs—strong ones, mind you. Wild roots from the Neck, saffron to be steeped in strongwine for three days. I’ve known it to aid many an anxious lord.”

The maester cleared his throat and went on, raising an eyebrow with an air of scholarly detachment. “And, if I may suggest… there are other... techniques, shall we say? Old wisdom passed down amongst the Southerners. Positioning makes a difference, particularly if the woman lies with her legs raised afterwards. It is believed to… encourage the seed to settle.”

Cregan pinched the bridge of his nose, torn between horror and bemusement. “You’re telling me to stand the poor girl on her head?”

The maester’s mouth quirked in the faintest smile. “Then it is also said that lavender oil rubbed on the skin under a new moon has coaxed many a reluctant heir into the world.”

“Lavender oil,” Cregan had muttered with a dour smile, caught between laughing at the absurdity of it all and throwing the list of remedies to the fire. “I’d wager Claere has plenty lying about. Have you noticed?”

The maester gave him a bemused look, raising a brow. “My lord?”

“Her scent—” Cregan paused, feeling strangely self-conscious but pressing on, his tone gruff. “Nothing like it grows in the Seven Kingdoms.”

The maester’s eyes twinkled with a faint, knowing smile. “Ah,” he said, “that would be spiceflower. A rare herb from the shores of Essos. Few use it; fewer still wear it. Quite the exotic choice.”

Cregan frowned, leaning back as he took this in. “Spiceflower…” he echoed, before shaking his head with a reticent chuckle. “And here I am, a lusty fool—yet still lacking in heirs.”

The maester chuckled, not unkindly. “Indeed, my lord. It’s a wonder you and Lady Stark had such trouble, considering. But, if I may say so, love often demands patience of the heart, even from those who burn like wildfire. Give it time. Try a few of the, ah… suggestions. And rest assured, the gods often surprise us in their timing.”

“Patience,” Cregan grumbled, scratching his jaw. “I’ll add that to the list, then.”

But the remedies had only deepened his frustration, leaving him feeling like a man grasping at shadows. None had yielded anything but silence, each attempt an echo lost to the biting chill of Winterfell. He wanted to give Claere this gift, this proof of their love—a legacy to carry forth into a new generation. Yet each passing month left him feeling more hollow, his hope thinning like frost in the morning sun, only to harden again when the day grew cold.

That night, as he lay beneath the furs, his hopes and fears pressed down upon him unrelentingly. Each failed attempt played through his mind like a song, one that had grown weary and out of tune. He had taken every herb, every supposed cure, had prayed to every god he could think of, but the same aching quiet remained.

Beside him, Claere lay in her own peaceful silence, her head resting on his chest, her fair hair spilling over his skin like silken snow. Her eyes, a deep, unwavering violet, watched him with a gentleness that felt almost mystical, and at that moment, he felt his turmoil ebb, if only for a heartbeat. She seemed so serene, untouched by the storm that raged within him. He envied her calm, even as he knew she might not share the same fierce desire for an heir that he did.

But her presence was a balm all its own. His hand came up almost absently to stroke her hair, his fingers tangling in those soft, pale locks as he held her to him, drawing comfort from her touch. Yet even that could not dispel the worry that gnawed at him—a worry that, unspoken, loomed between them like the darkness that lay just beyond the hearth’s glow.

“What troubles you?” she murmured, her voice breaking through the quiet like a peaceful thaw.

He exhaled, reluctant to confess the depth of his worries, but knowing that they’d continue to haunt him if he kept silent. “It’s been nearly two years, Claere,” he said, voice hushed and tinged with sorrow. “Even summer draws close, yet still…”

She raised her brow, her expression puzzled. “Still…?”

He paused, his fingers brushing absently through her hair. “Some might think our marriage has… gone cold. They may say that I’ve been unable to…” He trailed off, cursing his own pride for the thousandth time.

Her eyes softened as if she didn’t fully understand the meaning his words bore. But then she asked, in that quiet way of hers, “How many do you want, then?”

Her question caught him off guard, and he let out a short, surprised laugh. “How many?”

“Yes,” she replied with a small smile, tilting her head. “How many babes?”

He sighed, gazing up at the ceiling as he thought. “Five,” he murmured, his voice barely a whisper. “Maybe… six?”

She gasped, eyes wide in mock horror, laughter hidden in their depths. “Six! If you want six, Cregan, you’ll be carrying some of them yourself.”

He laughed, the sound rough and warm, as some of his tension dissolved. “Aye. I wish I could, I'd carry them all,” he admitted, a smile tugging at his lips. “You and I—we’d make fine parents. I’m certain of it.”

She watched him, her gaze as steady as ever. “Then perhaps I should speak to Maester Kennet tomorrow,” she said as if it were the simplest solution in the world.

He shook his head, chuckling softly. “I already have. He gave me more herbs than I know what to do with. And more ideas than any man could rightly attempt in a lifetime. Saffron, lavender oil, wild roots… I fear I may a grow a Glass Garden within my skin.”

A small laugh escaped her, easing her features and stirring a wildness within him. “And what other… techniques did he mention, hm?”

He rolled her over with a sudden, playful surge of energy, a breathless gasp slipping from her as he moved above her, his mouth brushing her neck, his voice low and teasing.

“Oh, there were a few obscene ones, my love. Even I flushed at some,” he murmured, his breath hot against her skin. “And I intend to try every last one of them, with your leave.”

She laughed, her rare and sweet sound filling the dark room, and his heart pounded as he held her close. He pushed a soft trail of kisses down her neck, the length of her collarbone, between her breasts, all the way to the curve of her navel. Her back arched off the bed, eyes rolling back into her head, a moan filling the silence.

“Ah,” he hummed into the seam of her legs, hefting them over his shoulder, “they're working already.”

For a time, the weight of his worries faded, leaving only her laughter and warmth, and the shared comfort of their embrace.

X

Claere sat alone by the low fire in Winterfell’s solar, her fingers drifting absently over the curve of her belly. Her gaze fell softly to the flame, her eyes half-lidded as though seeing something—or someone—beyond the walls of the castle, beyond the falling snow, stretching out all the way to Dragonstone.

In the flickering warmth, she began to murmur, her words barely above a whisper, yet steady, each one filled with quiet conviction. She’d imagined this conversation many times in her heart, but tonight it felt real, as if the distance between her and her mother, Rhaenyra, had fallen away, leaving only the intimacy of a daughter’s voice.

"Mother,” she began, a wistful smile playing on her lips, “I write this at a time when your presence is much missed here. I know you’d ask me of Winterfell, of life so far from what I was raised to know. And you’d wonder if I feel lost here if this place could ever be called home.” The words hung in the air, half question, half answer.

She took a deep breath, her hand resting gently on the small swell of her belly. “There’s a peace here, a rootedness,” she said, her gaze softening. "I have found love here—no less fierce than what I saw you hold for my brothers, what you taught us to dream of. Cregan is not a man who bends easily to others, nor would he take kindly to this North being called ‘strange’ or ‘harsh,’ for he loves it as truly as any man loves a woman. And through him, I have learned to love it too. To find warmth in these stones and shelter in the cold air."

The fire crackled, sending a flicker of shadow over her face, and her hand lingered on her belly with a tenderness that almost surprised her. She felt the life within her stir, a promise she hadn’t realized she’d waited her whole life to fulfil.

“I am with child, Mummy,” she murmured as if confessing to a dream. "And I know it in my very bones—she is a girl. A bright, wild soul, even now. She has your courage, your spirit, I feel it already."

Her gaze lifted, as though her mother could see her from across the ages.

“She is to be named Rhaenyra, to carry your legacy in this faraway land. She will be raised a Stark, she'll be who her father was, and have all the strength you gave me.”

Her voice softened, almost breaking. “I am so happy here. I am so far from you, and yet so close in my heart.”

As the fire’s light dimmed and the night grew quiet, Claere closed her eyes, feeling a warmth settle in her chest. She leaned back in her chair, as though her mother was present in the room with her, holding her in an unbreakable embrace across the many miles and years.

X

Sansa’s voice softened, echoing faintly off the stone walls of the crypts. She kept her gaze steady on the statues of Cregan and Claere, her eyes tracing the faint details carved into the faces that seemed so solemn, so eternal.

“Did you know, Tyrion,” she began, her voice low and measured, “they lost their firstborn? A daughter.”

Tyrion’s surprise flickered across his face. He’d thought he knew every corner of their story, but this was new—a shadow hidden even from the pages of history. “A daughter?” he murmured, almost to himself.

Sansa’s gaze didn’t shift, fixed on the cold, unyielding faces of the statues. “Claere had her labours too soon,” she continued, each word an echo of some deeper grief as if she could feel the loss herself. “They say she came in the sixth moon. Cregan had been away to the Wall then. The midwives refused to speak of her to him, and those who did wished they hadn’t.”

Tyrion tilted his head, watching Sansa as if trying to read some forgotten history from her expression. “Why?” he asked, voice hushed, as if afraid to disturb the old shadows around them.

“They said she was a beast—unlike anything seen in these lands,” Sansa replied, her voice barely above a whisper. “Old Nan told Bran once, that babe had scales as a dragon might, a hole where the heart was, but there was a wildness too—fur at her ears, horns at her brow.” Her hand drifted unconsciously to her own temple. “She was a creature of fire and ice.”

Tyrion’s face was hard to read, the curiosity in his eyes mixed with sorrow. “What happened to the baby?”

Sansa’s lips parted, the sadness settling deeper into her voice. “The White Dread cremated her.” She paused, her eyes on the statue of Claere, whose gaze seemed cast into some unseen distance. “They say her flames burned hotter than any fire the North had ever known until nothing remained of the child but ash in the wind.”

The silence that followed was thick, weighted with memories that did not belong to them. Tyrion stared at the statues, feeling the chill of the crypt press into his skin.

“Said it was a curse,” Sansa continued, her voice as steady as the stones surrounding them. “Some called it retribution for Claere’s dragon blood mingling with that of the wolf's. Others believed it was Winterfell’s vengeance for the foreign blood she brought to this house.”

“Curses… superstitions. Idiocy,” Tyrion muttered, though the words felt hollow in his mouth. He searched the statues’ faces as though they might offer some defiance, some challenge to the grim fate that had haunted them.

Sansa nodded slowly, her eyes never leaving Cregan and Claere’s statues. “Oh, how wrong they all were.”

X

The grief preyed on Cregan like a huntsman, aimed and unrelenting. He hadn’t been there when his daughter took her first—and only—breath. He hadn’t seen her small, twisted form, hadn’t held her lifeless body, hadn’t even seen the ash left in the pyre after Luna’s flames claimed her. All he had were the fractured whispers, the midwives' hushed tales of scales and horns, monstrous whispers that haunted him as he lay awake. They told him the babe was a creature—a child neither fully beast nor fully human, a twisted relic of a bloodline cursed.

And Claere… she had flown, disappeared across the bleak Northern sky on the back of her dragon. It had been a week of silence, of endless, hollow waiting. Every day he’d woken with a sliver of hope that she’d return, that she hadn’t simply left him behind to grieve alone. But each night she didn’t return felt like losing her all over again, as though the world had claimed not one but both of his girls. Perhaps she had gone back to her kin, her Targaryen blood too thick to weather Winterfell’s shadows. He was simply too removed into his head to send word.

When she did return, landing under the cold light of dawn, Cregan could scarcely face her. He felt his eyes torch in his head when he saw her, haggard and dirtied, travelling gods know where.

What could he say? How could he look into those fierce violet eyes, knowing she had borne their grief alone, toiling for two days to bring their daughter into a world that had torn her away before she’d even lived? He could feel the shame curling in his stomach like a sickness—he had left her to the darkest of agonies.

But Claere approached him with a stillness he hadn’t expected, a haunted calm in her eyes as she knelt at his feet, hands on her knees, her head bowing low.

“Forgive me, Cregan,” she said, her voice a hollow murmur, barely more than a breath against the cold. She kept her gaze lowered, refusing to meet his eyes. “The cost has been paid. For the lives I claimed, this was… the price. I've always known. I knew it would come. This burden should only be mine to bear.”

He looked down, stunned into silence. Her words echoed in the room, colder than the stone walls around them, more cutting than any blade. He could feel a sharp ache twisting in his chest as he understood her meaning—understood that in her mind, the world had claimed their child as retribution for the men she’d burned, for the blood she had spilt.

“And for that,” she continued, her voice steady but edged with sorrow, “I am yours to punish, in any way you see fit. If you’d have me return to my brother, I’ll leave. If you’d have my life… it’s yours to take.”

Cregan’s gaze snapped to her, raw anger surging up from the depths of his grief. He wanted to scream, to rage, to tear down the walls around them in his fury. But the sight of her—so proud, yet kneeling before him with her shoulders bent under the weight of guilt—left him hollow. He watched her as she knelt, holding back tears with an unyielding resolve, the faintest tremor betraying the walls she had raised around herself. For once, her impassive mask was cracking, and he could see the sorrow underneath, the grief she had borne alone in silence.

He reached out, his rough fingers brushing her chin as he tilted her face upward, meeting her eyes at last. Tears brimmed there, held back with stubborn defiance, but as she looked at him, something within her broke. Her features twisted, and in a raw, heart-wrenching sob, she let her grief fall free.

“I deserve this. I did this,” she whimpered.

It devastated him. Every ounce of anger he had felt, every bitter thought and word he’d held onto, melted away as he pulled her into his arms. Held her close until her breaths became his.

“No,” he said roughly, “please don't, Claere.”

She sobbed against his chest, her tears soaking into the rough fabric of his tunic, her frame trembling with each wrenching gasp. And as he held her, he, too, felt their shared sorrow, a grief so deep it felt like the cold itself had seeped into his bones.

Cregan let out a shattered sob, pressing his face into her hair, his hand running along her back in a desperate attempt to soothe her.

“I love you,” he promised, his rough voice broken with feeling. “And I would kill another thousand men before you blame yourself for this tragedy.”

“Forgive me,” she wept softly.

“No, hush, love. I have you, I don't want anyone else.”

They clung to each other, their sorrow woven together, a single thread in a tapestry of loss and love. And as the dawn light began to creep into the chamber, illuminating the room with a pale, ghostly glow, they mourned not just for the daughter they had lost, but for the life they had dreamed of—a life now gone, scattered like ashes in the wind.

X

Tyrion turned to Sansa, brow creased in confusion as he took in the significant words of her story. "They had children, did they not? Of their own?"

Sansa’s lips curved into a gentle smile, a glimmer of pride and sorrow mingling in her eyes. "They did," she replied, her voice quiet, almost reverent, as though speaking of something sacred.

“Four pups," she said. "Their eldest, they called the White Wolf."

Her gaze drifted to a tall statue a little ways from where Cregan and Claere’s likenesses stood. “That’s him, Brandon Stark," she explained. "Even in stone, you can see it in him. Brandon didn't get to rule until his twenty-ninth nameday.”

Tyrion's brow furrowed again, curiosity mingling with amusement. "And did Brandon have a dragon, then?" he mused. "Strange that I don’t recall any Stark children riding one."

Sansa gave a small, enigmatic shrug. “None of their cradle eggs hatched," she replied, her voice touched by a hint of irony. "Maybe our blood is too rooted in the ground, too determined for such Valyrian magic.”

Her words hung in the cold air, and for a moment, neither spoke. Tyrion could almost picture it—a line of Northern children, each with an unhatched egg at their bedside, bound by tradition and yet untouched by it. The eggs must have been exquisite: shimmering, dormant things, packed into chests or set aside in the Godswood. And there they lay, silent reminders of a legacy Claere had hoped to pass on but that Winterfell had quietly refused.

He looked over at Sansa, who was gazing at her ancestors with a rare softness. “Perhaps it’s for the best,” she murmured, almost to herself. “They needed no fire when they had the North.”

X

Claere stood behind Cregan, a faint smirk pulling at her lips as she tugged at a single strand of white hair stubbornly sprouting from his crown. Cregan winced, catching her gaze in the mirror with a halfhearted glare, though a small smile betrayed him. She leaned closer, brushing a lock of her own silver hair over her shoulder, its colour unchanged despite the years.

He turned to look up at her, taking in the gentle pride in her eyes, the warmth that had softened the cool distance she’d carried with her from King’s Landing. She had become the heart of Winterfell as surely as he was its spine; they had grown into each other, their love deepening with each new season. And now, they shared a life that seemed less of battle and duty, and more of small, cherished moments like this one.

"Careful," she teased, her fingers gently releasing the strand. "You’ve finally been touched by winter itself. White hair suits you, Lord Stark."

He gave a huff, rolling his eyes as he rubbed at his scalp where she’d tugged. “A Targaryen would think so. Means something different here in the North.”

“I think you look rather handsome,” she murmured.

Cregan raised an eyebrow, catching her gaze in the mirror. “Is that so?”

Claere smiled softly, leaning in to press a gentle kiss to his cheek, letting it linger. “That is so.”

He was about to pull her in by her waist when, soon enough, Brandon’s mop of silver curls and wide grey eyes peeked over the door, and he strolled straight over and hauled himself up to sit on the dresser, swinging his legs and looking for all the world like he’d earned his spot.

The Stark children of Winterfell were a sight to behold, each one as distinct as the seasons that marked the North, yet bound together by the fierce blood that ran in their veins. Brandon Stark, the eldest, was born to an inheritance of heavy expectation and watchful eyes, his white hair gleaming starkly against the dark winters of his home. His labour marked the end of Claere and Cregan's grieving for their daughter, a silver lining that shone so bright after a two-year dark night. Though he bore his father’s strong frame and presence, his colouring made him seem almost unnatural, a blend of Stark and Targaryen that whispered of magic and legend. Brandon wore his status quietly, already showing a sombre diligence that mirrored his father’s. He was a boy who thought twice before speaking and thrice before acting—much to the exasperation of his younger siblings.

"Where’s your sister?” Cregan asked, quirking an eyebrow as he studied his eleven-year-old son, who’d already snuck his hands around the hilt of the longsword that leaned against the dresser.

Brandon grinned, mischief dancing in his eyes. “With Ed and Rickon. They said they’re going to try and mount Luna again.”

Cregan sighed, feeling the weight of fatherhood settle on him as solidly as the cloak over his shoulders. “I ought to tie all their feet together and hang them from that damned beast. I told you, Claere, to not feed the children with this madness.”

Claere chuckled, her fingers deftly weaving a section of his hair as if considering another silver culprit. “Luna wouldn't hurt what is mine. She's harmless.”

Cregan’s brow furrowed, but before he could retort, Claere gave another tug at a hidden strand, and he winced, swatting her hand away with a grumble.

“Have mercy, my love.”

Brandon’s eyes narrowed, fixing on his mother’s hand as she toyed with the strand, and he frowned. “Why are you doing that to Father?”

Claere’s smile softened as she looked from her husband to her son. “Because your father needs reminding now and then,” she murmured, her fingers finding his shoulders, “that even the strongest oak grows older with time.” She paused, ruffling Brandon’s hair with a gentle hand. “But don’t you worry. Your father is just as fierce as he was before.”

“She secretly loves it,” Cregan stage-whispered to his son, winking.

Brandon tilted his head thoughtfully, then gave a firm nod. “Father’s the strongest, even with grey hair.”

Cregan smirked, giving his son a warm, prideful glance. “Is that so? And what would you know about it, hm?”

Brandon shrugged, his small fingers still dancing around the hilt of Cregan’s sword. “Just… know it,” he said, nodding to himself as if his future strength were already assured. His gaze never left the blade, drawn to the legacy it carried. “One day, I’ll be as strong as you. I'll hold up Ice with a single fist.”

Cregan’s hand settled over his son’s, a gentle, knowing grasp that made Brandon look up, wide-eyed. “Strength’s more than what you hold in your hands, little wolf. It’s in here.” He tapped a finger against Brandon’s chest. “And in here.” A finger to his forehead. “Takes both to be worthy of a sword.”

Brandon looked between them, his brow furrowing slightly as if contemplating a great secret he wasn’t yet old enough to understand. He nodded solemnly, absorbing his father’s words with the gravity only a boy on the brink of his first ambitions could muster.

But before Cregan could say more, the door burst open, slamming into the wall, sending a gust of laughter and hurried footsteps echoing through the room. Rickon came barreling in, his face flushed with a wild grin, with Edric hot on his heels, a look of determined fury in his eyes. Rickon glanced back, cackling in delight, his feet carrying him just out of his younger brother’s reach.

Rickon, only seven, was a restless fire. He was the second-born son, wild and spirited, already proving to be as headstrong as he was loyal. He bore no outward trace of his mother’s Valyrian heritage—no silver in his hair, no unnatural glint to his grey eyes. Rickon was a Stark, through and through, with a fierce heart that sometimes got him into trouble. He had none of Brandon’s careful restraint; instead, he charged into life with the boundless energy of a wolf pup, bringing both chaos and laughter to Winterfell’s quiet halls. And he was adored for it, a boy who could lighten the darkest day with his mischief.

“Tell him, Bran! Tell our baby brother he's a big bonehead!” Rickon called, flashing a triumphant smirk over his shoulder.

“You're dead, Rickon!” Edric, face red and eyes alight with indignation, launched himself forward, intent on tackling Rickon.

The twins, Eddric and Luce, were only five but already made their mark. Eddric, the quietest of the brood, had a stillness about him that spoke of an inner strength. People said he was his father’s mirror in his younger years, with a steady gaze and a quietness that hid the steady turn of thought. He followed Brandon with a silent loyalty, never complaining, always watching. Although, his second brother always loved to keep him on his toes.

Brandon, ever the mediator, hopped off the vanity, stepping in front of his brothers, raising his small hands in a peaceable gesture that was years beyond his age.

Behind them, little Lucelle slipped quietly into the room, trailing her brothers with a gentler, watchful presence. Without a word, she gravitated toward her mother, slipping her small hand into Claere’s skirt folds, her delicate fingers clutching fabric as though it held all the comfort of the world. Claere smiled down at her daughter, brushing a gentle hand over Luce’s pale braid and planting a light kiss on her head.

Luce, by contrast to her brothers, was as loud as she was small, a tempest wrapped in a child’s form. Though she bore her father’s colouring, she had her mother’s violet eyes—bright, sharp, and entirely too knowing. Even at five, she held herself with fierce pride and a pearl of uncanny wisdom, and when she spoke, she did so with the quiet authority of someone far older.

“How was Luna today?” Claere asked her softly.

Luce leaned into her mother’s touch, her thumb idly rubbing the soft fabric, an unspoken bond of safety. “We barely even got to her before Ed and Rick started fighting. Idiots.”

“You cannot call your brothers that,” Claere hushed her, muffling the smile that cracked into her stern voice.

“Bran calls them that,” she opposed.

“Rickon told me I’m the spare!” Edric’s voice broke through the laughter, his hurt undeniable, despite the fire in his glare as he fixed it on Rickon. “He told me Mum only wanted Luce, and I was extra!”

Brandon sighed, glancing at Rickon with a slight shake of his head. “Rick…”

Rickon crossed his arms, his smirk deepening. “He is. It’s not like Mum has a choice with you.”

With a fierce growl, Edric launched himself at his older brother again, fists ready, but before he could strike, a strong arm reached down, lifting him clean off the ground. Cregan held him firmly, his son’s small body squirming in his grasp, and Edric’s indignation filled the room like thunderclouds gathering.

“Let me go, Da! I’ll pound him to dust!” Edric howled, kicking his legs in protest, though Cregan’s arms held fast.

“Oh, I don’t doubt it,” Cregan said, his tone dry, though there was a glimmer of warmth in his eyes as he held Edric up at arm’s length. “And what will that solve, lad? Leave a wily little fox like you to guard Winterfell alone? The walls themselves would flee.”

Edric scowled, struggling a bit as he dangled, though a faint smirk touched his lips. “I'm a wolf like you, Da,” he grumbled, still glaring at Rickon. “One day, I’ll be older, and I’ll pin him to the wall myself.”

Rickon, with a shrug and a careless smirk, crossed his arms. “When pigs fly, little brother,” he teased, the mischief in his voice unshakable.

Brandon, standing nearby with his arms folded, smacked the back of Rickon’s head lightly. “Why can't you pick on someone your own size?”

Rickon grinned at his older brother, shrugging off the swat as though it were nothing. “Where’s the fun in that?”

Cregan finally set Edric down, though his hand lingered on the boy’s shoulder to steady him. “Enough, all of you,” he said, his tone slipping into the low authority of a lord. “If you waste your energy fighting each other, we’re no better than hounds snarling over scraps.”

Edric pouted, but a look of consideration passed over his face. He mumbled under his breath, glancing at Rickon. “One day, though, I will be stronger.”

Rickon rolled his eyes, though a grin tugged at his lips as he tousled Edric’s hair. “And I’ll still be faster, so good luck with that.”

Brandon sighed, sounding far older than his ten years, and levelled a stern look at his younger brothers. “Don't make me knock your heads together.”

Edric scowled, scratching his jaw—his father's habit—glancing down before muttering, “I won't punch you, Rickon… I guess.”

Rickon, ever the little rogue, didn’t miss a beat. With a quick, sidelong glance at his younger brother, he gave his little brother's bottom a playful smack.

“There—apology accepted,” he laughed, darting out of reach.

Edric’s eyes went wide, and without another word, he took off after his brother, his face red again. “I’m going to kill you, you rat!”

Rickon only laughed harder, his steps light and quick as he ducked between the furniture and made for the door. The sound of their laughter and footsteps filled the room, echoing off the stone walls with a warmth that could thaw even Winterfell’s chill.

Claere looked back to Cregan, the glint of amusement unmistakable in her gaze. She rested a hand on his shoulder, her voice low but carrying a hint of shared mischief.

“Maybe we ought to tie all of their feet together,” she mused, a spark dancing in her eye.

Cregan chuckled, shaking his head as he watched the boys tumble after each other. He kissed the top of her head. “No need, love. They’re bound already.”

Claere’s smile muffled as Cregan’s gaze drifted to their daughter, his expression melting into one of pure adoration. He opened his arms, and Luce scurried over and nestled into him with a giggle. He swept her up, dirty skirts and all, cuddling her to his chest.

"C’mere, Luce. My little queen. Sweetling. Sunshine." he murmured, punctuating every endearment with a kiss. He pressed a flurry of kisses to her cheeks, each one met with a small, shy smile as she clung to his tunic, basking in his affection.

“Oh, your brothers are a handful, but I’ve got you, haven’t I?” he murmured into her hair, his voice a low, affectionate rumble.

Luce nodded, her tiny fingers curling around his collar as if to hold him close. “I'll tie them onto Luna for you, Da,” she said, her voice just loud enough for him to hear.

Cregan laughed, glancing up at Claere, who watched them, almost in pride. “She’ll keep this family in line,” he joked, his eyes dancing as he gave Claere a knowing look. “Someone’s got to.”

Claere smirked, brushing a stray lock of Luce’s hair back with a gentle hand. “It seems she’s the only one who can keep even you in line.”

Just then, a thump and a crash from the hallway sent a ripple of laughter through them as Rickon, Bran, and Edric clattered into view, wrestling in an entangled heap of elbows, snarls and shouts.

Cregan shook his head, still holding Luce close. “I’ll give them ten minutes before they’re back, claiming mortal wounds over a scraped knee or bruised pride.”

Claere laughed, her fingers trailing over Luce’s shoulder as she murmured, “So long as they keep coming back… let them bruise as they will.”

For the people of Winterfell, the Stark children were a fascinating sight. They were a blend of old and new, Northern ice and dragon fire, and their presence seemed to promise something powerful and strange. The household had watched them grow with almost reverent awe, and whispers ran through the kitchens and courtyards, soft as the snow: They are of both wolf and dragon, and who knows what their futures hold?

Claere and Cregan raised their children as both wolves and dragons, with love as fierce as winter and discipline as sharp as steel. Each child bore the marks of their parents' contrasting worlds, shaped by the ice of the North and the fire of Claere’s bloodline. Claere had come to Winterfell as a stranger, her Targaryen heritage making her an enigma to the Northern folk, but she carved out her place there with quiet strength. In her children, she found a bridge between past and future, each one a blend of her Valyrian roots and Cregan’s Stark blood.

She mothered them with a firm hand, fiercely protective yet unwilling to shelter them from the hard truths of their world. With Brandon, her eldest, she stoked a sense of duty and honour, guiding him to read the land and the people, to notice what others missed, and to understand that strength was often quiet. He was the heir, the White Wolf, and she reminded him that he held both fire and ice within him. Rickon, wild and reckless as a storm, needed her balance to hold his nature in check. Eddric, the watchful one, often content to linger at the edge, was Cregan's shadow. She knew his quiet was more than shyness; it was the start of wisdom, a Stark-born stillness that watched and weighed.

Cregan, in turn, forged his children in the Northern way, teaching them to endure hardship, to feel the weight of a sword and the pull of a bow, to know that their lives were tied to the land, as old as the wolves carved into the walls of Winterfell. All his boys learned the ways of a leader and his army—the honour in command and the weight of responsibility. Cregan had him stand watch on the battlements, and learn the lay of the North as if it was etched into his veins.

But it was with Luce that both Cregan and Claere softened. She had her father’s face, all Stark and strong-boned, but her mother’s spirit—a quiet ferocity, a softness she wore like armour. Cregan was gentler with her, the daughter who clung to his arm and had him wrapped around her small finger. She was her father’s pride, her mother’s wisdom, and though he would never say it aloud, Cregan often looked at her with the same bemused wonder he’d had for Claere since the day she entered his life.

And so, Winterfell saw the children grow under their parents' steady hand. They were loved fiercely, disciplined with purpose, and shaped by the ancient pillars and endless snow.

One night, Claere sat alone in the dim, quiet room, absently stroking Luce’s hair as she slept on her lap, singing lowly under her breath. It had been a long day, and she found herself missing Cregan’s company with an ache she hadn’t expected. Since the loss of their firstborn, he’d been reluctant to leave her side, especially when his duties called him to the Wall, yet he’d had no choice. The distance unsettled her more than she would admit, and she wondered if he, too, felt the hollow space she sensed at her back.

The soft creak of the door brought her from her thoughts, Claere looked up, her gaze softening as she saw Brandon standing there, silhouetted by the hallway’s faint light. He looked as though he’d come by mistake, and was ready to turn back—but Claere beckoned him with a gentle smile, patting the bed beside her.

So sleep, dear starling, the night is long, with fire in heart and ice in song...

"Come," she whispered.

Brandon’s shoulders relaxed as he slipped into the room, padding quietly across the floor before climbing onto the bed. He settled beside her, leaning his head against her shoulder, breathing in the faint scent of herbs and warmth that always seemed to cling to her. It reminded him of home, of safety—of the softness he didn’t find anywhere else. Claere’s hand continued to pat Luce’s back, but her arm extended to draw him close, letting him sink into her side.

For a while, they sat in silence, Luce’s breathing a lull in the quiet. Then Brandon shifted, and in a low, begrudging whisper, he said, “Why must I share a room with those two?” His tone was layered with exasperation, that distinct note of long-suffering only a brother of younger siblings could manage.

“What have they done now?” Claere’s voice held a hint of amusement.

Brandon sighed as if forced to recount a tale of unending woe. “They broke each other’s noses. Again.”

Claere let out a quiet laugh, and Brandon felt the warmth of it in the vibration of her shoulder against his cheek. “And now, does Rickon still hug Ed in his sleep?” she asked a glimmer of humour in her voice.

Brandon rolled his eyes. “Like I said—idiots,” he muttered, but the faintest of smiles tugged at his lips.

Luce stirred and whined in her sleep, and Claere’s hand returned to gently patting her back, sending her back to slumber with a soft hum.

Brandon’s gaze lingered on his sister, feeling a pang in his chest that he couldn’t name. It was something knotted, tight, a jealousy that tasted bitter at the edges. He wanted to be held like this, to be smiled at so fondly, to be the one looked at so softly, so protectively. He wanted to be more than the heir, the firstborn whose hands were always busy with swords and lessons. He wanted to be his mother’s little one, just as Luce seemed to be.

“Why does she get to sleep here?” he asked, unable to keep the envy from his voice.

Claere paused, her hand stilling on Luce’s back. She looked down at Brandon, and her gaze held an understanding, a sadness that he didn’t entirely comprehend. Her fingers traced a gentle line along his cheek, brushing back a stray lock of his pale hair.

"Because, my son," she said softly, “she is my last child, my small light in the dark. But you…” She cupped his face, turning him to meet her eyes fully, grey and fierce. “You are my first. You taught me what it is to be a mother. The babe I dreamed of long before I ever saw you. I see myself in Luce, but I see my heart in you.”

Brandon’s throat tightened, but he swallowed, the words sinking deep.

She held his gaze, her expression turning serious, almost solemn. “You must promise to protect her, Bran. All of them. You are my strength in this world.”

Brandon nodded, his jaw set, the weight of her words settling on his small shoulders with a sense of duty he was still growing into. His mother’s fierce love, and her gentle guidance—these were the things that built him, a silent armour he wore just as much as his father’s teachings.

Settling his cheek back on her shoulder, he murmured, “Why did my egg never hatch?”

Claere paused, then hummed thoughtfully, her fingers stroking down his arm in a soothing rhythm. “Perhaps,” she replied with a faint smile, “you’re more like your father than me. All of you are, in different ways.”

Her hand came to rest on his head, patting it with an absent fondness. Brandon looked up at her, his young face etched with curiosity. “Could I claim Luna, then?”

“If she’ll have you,” she answered, a hint of amusement coloring her voice. “Though you’ll need more than will to ride her.”

Brandon fell silent, mulling over her words, before he ventured again, his tone almost timid. “Ma?”

Claere hummed, giving him her full attention.

“Could I squire in the South? At Dragonstone. With Uncle Jacaerys?” He looked at her, eyes wide, a trace of longing lingering in his expression.

Claere snickered softly. “Lord Stark will have some thoughts about this. And they won’t be gentle ones.”

“But I know nothing about Targaryen customs, about our family’s ways,” he insisted, his voice carrying an earnest edge. “The things they say—the language, the dreams, Aegon the Conqueror…”

Claere’s gaze softened, and she reached to smooth a lock of Brandon’s silver hair from his face, her fingers lingering in the unruly curls that were so much like her own. She knew the pull he felt, that ache to connect with the other half of himself—the part that carried the blood of dragons, with all its legends and haunted promises. But she also knew Cregan’s thoughts on the matter, thoughts forged not from prejudice but from a bone-deep protectiveness and the history they’d both lived through.

"Your father…” Claere began, choosing her words carefully, “… would rather see you grow as a Stark than a Targaryen.” She smiled softly, though there was a sadness there. “To him, your family—our family—holds too many ghosts.”

Brandon frowned, his young mind wrestling with something he couldn’t fully grasp. “Why does he hate them?” he whispered. “Hate us?”

Claere shook her head. “No, he does not hate you or me. But he’s seen the way Targaryens turn on each other, even on those they love.” Her voice grew quieter, shadows darkening her eyes as memories surfaced, painful ones. “He’s seen the scars they leave behind. He would never want that for you.”

Brandon opened his mouth to protest, but Claere held up a hand, a glimmer of her resolve flashing through. “When I left King’s Landing, I was traded away for powerplay. The heir to the Iron Throne, the daughter who left the dragons behind, the sister who stood apart. To your father, they failed me because they never tried to understand me.” She held his gaze, and there was a spark of fierceness. “Your father gave me what they never could—home, love, belonging. He would never let you go somewhere that could take that from you.”

Brandon looked away, the longing still clear in his face. “But how am I supposed to be both?” he asked, frustration leaking into his voice.

“You don’t have to be both,” Claere said, gently turning his chin so he’d meet her eyes again. “You’re a Stark. Winterfell is your home, and it’s more than enough.” She leaned in, lowering her voice. “And if you ever want to know what the dragons were, or what dreams they carry, you have me.”

She saw the hint of a question on his lips, and she met it with a steady gaze, letting him see the truth, the warmth, the strength she’d carried. "I will tell you all you need to know,” she whispered, brushing her fingers against his cheek. “Of the dreams, the language, the stories of old Valyria. Those are yours to know here, by my side.”

Brandon seemed to consider this, his expression softening, though the flicker of desire still lingered in his eyes. He gave her a slow, uncertain nod as if coming to terms with the truth he didn’t fully understand. He shifted closer to Claere, his gaze drifting to his sleeping sister. With a quiet sigh, his hand rested on Luce’s hair, fingers threading gently through the soft strands, his gaze fixed and calm as he watched his sister sleep. In that small, quiet moment, Claere saw her children—each bound to Winterfell, bound to one another, and bound to her, the blood and heart of her life here in the North.

She leaned down and pressed a lingering kiss to both their heads, the warmth of her touch settling over them like a shield. In them, she had forged a legacy as strong as stone, something beyond the name and blood that marked them. Her children would not walk the lonely paths of dreams and ancient fire; they would walk the halls of Winterfell, as Starks and Targaryens both, together, woven in the stark threads of love and loyalty.

“Rest now, my heart,” she whispered to Brandon, her voice soft as snowfall. “All that you are—one day, you’ll understand.”

As Brandon finally closed his eyes, nestled beside his sister, Claere let herself linger, watching over them. The shadows in the room softened, a quiet peace settling in with the deep, Northern night, and in that stillness, it felt as though Winterfell itself held its breath, honouring a family forged from ice and fire.

X

Tyrion lingered before the statues, his fingers tracing an idle path over the stone as he mused, “So, Claere went first.” He shook his head, voice touched with a faint, almost reluctant admiration. “And Cregan… he didn’t last much longer, did he?”

Sansa’s gaze softened, a distant, wistful look in her eyes. “No. It was as if losing her carved him hollow.” She let out a small, sombre breath. “They say he couldn’t bear the thought of life without her. Even his children offered him no solace. His strength faded quickly, and he let it.” Her lips curled with a faint, sad smile. “In the end, he had her bones laid to rest beside him. He’d rather share the crypts than a world without her.”

Tyrion tilted his head, smirking with a dry irony. “Northern sentimentality… burying your wife in your own tomb. Poetic, if a bit possessive.”

Sansa laughed, the sound a soft note in the stillness of the crypt. “It’s the Stark way—blunt and stubborn. But we’re loyal to the end, even in death.”

She let her gaze drift to the statues, her eyes clouding over as the distant sounds of the battle above seeped into the silence, chilling the air around them.

A moment passed before Tyrion’s voice lowered, a touch of dark humour edging his words. “Do you suppose she saw him when she flew past the Wall? The Night King? Did she foresee this—Jon, Daenerys, the dead—all of it?”

Sansa’s lips turned in a grim smile. “Maybe he’ll raise her tonight, and you can ask her yourself.”

Tyrion chuckled, though a touch of unease crept into his voice. “I’d be honoured—though I’d rather she stay silent in their tomb.”

As the rumbling above grew louder, Sansa reached within her cloak and drew out a single winter rose, its pale petals stark against the shadows. She stepped forward, resting it on Claere’s carved hands, nestled within the etched garland of roses across her stone form.

Tyrion watched as Sansa drew back, her gaze never leaving the rose. “A Stark gesture if I’ve ever seen one,” he muttered.

She turned to him, a ghost of a smile lingering. “Some things deserve to be remembered.”

X

The night was a vast, velvet black stretched over Winterfell, the stars scattered in dazzling points of light above them. Claere and Cregan lay side by side on the old, stone battlements, watching the sky. A soft, cool wind rustled her hair, silver in the moonlight, and she felt Cregan’s warmth beside her, steady and familiar, like the rhythm of her own heartbeat.

They had aged together, the sharp lines of youth softened, but neither seemed diminished. If anything, Cregan thought he had never loved her more. They had grown together—each trial they faced only drew them closer. He saw it in her laughter, lighter now, and the ease with which she leaned against him. He turned his gaze to her, taking in the curve of her cheek, and the glint of her eyes as they wandered the heavens above. They’d come so far together—crossing the years like an open field, hand in hand, step by step.

Suddenly, she gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. “I just saw a star fall!” Her eyes were wide with wonder, her face alight as she nudged him with her elbow.

“A what?” he replied, more amused than astonished, though her excitement tugged a smile from him.

“Look!” she whispered, pointing upwards, her voice laced with awe. “There’s another one.”

In a flash, a streak of silver split the night, fierce and blazing, trailing a tail of white fire that lingered before it vanished. The comet seemed to sweep across the heavens as though chasing some hidden destiny, filling the sky with a brief, impossible brightness.

For a moment, they were both silent, entranced by the spectacle. Cregan watched her as she looked up, her face soft in wonderment, captivated by something he could barely see. And then, with a slow smile, he rolled onto his shoulder, propping himself over her, so he could see the sky reflected in her eyes.

Claere shifted closer, tucking her head under his chin, and he wrapped an arm around her. He could feel her heartbeat, steady and strong against his chest, and he knew there was no place on earth he’d rather be.

Cregan’s gaze swept over her in the dim starlight, a quiet smile tugging at his mouth. “It’s a strange thing,” he murmured, eyes lingering on her, “to think how you looked that first night. Like some ghostly princess… Thought you might drift away before I could reach you.”

Claere tilted her head, a faint, amused smile gracing her lips. “And I thought you might send me back to King’s Landing on the next wheelhouse,” she replied, her tone dry.

Cregan chuckled, his voice soft with something deeper. “I think I’d have moved mountains to make you stay.”

She studied him, her eyes softening with an implicit fondness, one finger tracing the lines of his shoulder. “You always believed I’d fit here, even when I didn’t.” Her voice was almost a whisper, the words slipping out like a confession.

He turned, leaning in closer. “Guess I saw more than a stranger under all that Targaryen pride.” He smirked, kissing her nose. “Stubborn as a Stark, with a Northern heart.”

Claere gave a faint laugh, but her gaze lingered on him, her eyes reflecting the starlight. “You say that now,” she murmured, “but sometimes I still feel like I’ve brought winter itself to your door.”

His voice softened as he drew her nearer. “What about it?”

They fell silent, lost in each other’s eyes. Then, she gasped softly, her hand pressing to his chest as she looked up at the night.

“There it goes again!”

A streak of light tore across the sky, leaving a fiery trail as if some ancient power were tracing its path over the heavens. Her face lit up with childlike wonder, her smile reaching her eyes as she watched the comet blaze overhead.

Cregan chuckled, rolling to his side to get a better view of her expression. “A falling star,” he said, half to himself, “or some sign from the gods.” He leaned in closer, his gaze unwavering. “Doesn’t much matter to me, though. Because the way I see it, you’re all the gift I’ll ever need.”

Her smile softened, her hand finding his, their fingers intertwining as naturally as if they’d always fit that way. “Then make a wish,” she whispered, her voice barely audible against the wind.

“Already have, love,” he replied, brushing his lips against her brow. “And it came true.”

They lay there, wrapped in each other’s arms, as the comet burned on, lighting the sky above them. And though the years had weathered them, though battles had come and gone, in that quiet moment on Winterfell’s ancient stones, they knew that their love had endured all things, burning bright long after they were gone.

X

that marks the end of this series! thank you all so much for following along with Cregan and Claere, I am so proud of what I've accomplished in these past few weeks :D I am going to be opening my inbox to requests, and I'm going to post bonus scenes and one-shots of these two if anyone's ever interested!

[ taglist: @pearldaisy , @thatkindofgurl , @theadharablack , @cherryheairt , @beingalive1 , @oxymakestheworldgoround , @tigolebittiez , @cosmosnkaz , @lv7867 , @piper570 , @danikasthings , @acsc8 , @justdazzling ] -> thank you for your endless support everyone!

[butchgatha]

make your good love known to me

pairing: agatha harkness x rio vidal

summary: agatha enchants rio's strap-on. it's just smut.

warnings: smut, light dom/sub (sub!rio), enchanted dildo, hand jobs, blow jobs, dirty talk

w/c: 4.6k

men + minors dni | ao3 link

Even the firm grip on her hips, fingertips squeezing so tight she was sure they would bruise, couldn’t keep Rio from grinding herself down on Agatha’s thigh. Rio was moaning into Agatha’s mouth, kissing her fervently and without breaks, stealing her breath from her lungs just as she so often did to her. 

Just when Rio thought she might have the upperhand, that she may get to take charge just this once, Agatha sat right up, knocking Rio back onto her haunches over her lap. She gasped, nearly losing her balance until Agatha threaded a hand into her hair and tugged her head back. 

“It’s never going to be that easy,” Agatha teased. 

Rio groaned then, only half-frustrated by the way Agatha could see right through her antics. “I want to make you feel good,” she rebutted. She let her hands rest on Agatha’s waist, ignoring the sting of her scalp. “You deserve a break sometimes.” 

Agatha laughed, sounding genuinely amused, and released Rio’s hair from her hand. “Good try.” She slipped out from under Rio then, leaving her kneeling on the mattress. “Be right back.” 

A kiss to the side of Rio’s head didn’t deter her from groaning, watching over her shoulder as Agatha disappeared into the closet. “Agatha,” Rio called after her. 

“You’re impatient,” Agatha called back, not even trying to sound annoyed.

She emerged a moment later holding a jet-black dildo and a harness, and something stirred in Rio at the sight. From the bed, Rio watched as Agatha approached–she was staring at the items in her hands with rapt attention and mumbling to herself. Before Rio could comment on the strangeness of it all, Agatha was in front of her again, her eyes darkened with a scheming desire that sent a pang of butterflies through Rio’s stomach. 

“Not so smart now, are we?” Agatha teased. She tossed the strap-on onto the mattress and beckoned Rio over with a curled finger. “Come here.” 

Rio stood from the bed then, knees wobbling only for a moment as she closed the gap between them, and in an instant Agatha’s hands were on her. She tugged at Rio’s shirt, the loose material gliding smoothly as she pulled it over her head. Not a second later, she was pulling at the waistband of Rio’s jeans, her fingers deftly undoing the button and zipper before stripping them off her. Since she hadn’t been wearing a bra to begin with, all that was left were her underwear, which Agatha promptly ignored in favour of pushing her back onto the mattress. 

“I’m impatient?” Rio laughed, watching as Agatha tore her own clothes from her body. 

“Shut up.” 

Rio bit back her laugh at that, choosing instead to admire the expanses of skin being slowly revealed to her. Agatha’s stomach was the first to appear as she removed her shirt, followed closely by her bra. Rio reached out then, hoping to either help or at least get her hands on the soft skin that called to her, but Agatha swatted her hands away. 

“No,” was all she said, voice firm and final. 

Rio pushed back anyway. “I want to feel you, Agatha, please,” she said softly.

Agatha seemed thoroughly amused by that statement, and she laughed to herself. “I’m sure we can sort something out.” 

Rio had no idea how to respond to that, but much to her luck Agatha had just finished undressing herself, anyway, leaving herself in just her bra and underwear. She was gorgeous like this, as she always was, and it made Rio’s head spin to think about what exactly Agatha had in store. She loved the look she got when she was truly in the zone, the deeply obsessed, sort of maniacal one that always appeared when she was at her most inspired as she would say–Rio could see it blooming now, starting with the slight smirk on her lips.

Agatha took two steps forward to the bed and, without speaking, tugged Rio’s underwear down–an action that made Rio suddenly aware of just how sodden the material was, making her cheeks flush hot. “Stand up,” she said, sounding quite disengaged despite the brazen look on her face. 

Rio did, and, with a growing throb between her legs, watched as Agatha picked up the dildo and harness from the bed. Wordlessly, Agatha secured everything to Rio’s person, the straps sliding taut against her bare skin until it was just right. Then, right at the end, just when she should have been standing up, stepping back to admire her work, Rio saw her pause, the slight sounds of mumbled words hitting her ears. 

“What are you-”

“Sit back down.” 

Without question, Rio obliged. Whatever was at the edge of Agatha’s tone told her not to push, not because it would end badly, but instead because whatever she was planning was that much better. There was a certain twinkle in her eye, something devious and devising, so alluring Rio couldn’t bear even the thought of resisting. The dildo bounced as she sat, but before Rio could do anything with it Agatha took both her hands in hers. She was standing right in front of her, their knees all but knocking, and she took advantage of the closeness to place each of Rio’s hands at her sides, holding them there for a moment until Rio realized she was prompting her to grab at the sheets under her palms. 

“Good,” Agatha murmured.

She spoke almost absentmindedly, like she was miles away just thinking. Still, she leaned in next, coming so close to Rio that their lips grazed oh-so lightly, a tingle jolting through Rio’s chest. It was soft, a sweet moment wherein their noses brushed and their eyes fell to each other’s lips and Rio almost forgot she was sitting completely nude on the edge of the bed with a dildo strapped around her hips. Almost. 

Rio squirmed then, hyper aware of Agatha’s proximity and the promise of something particularly sinister on Agatha’s part. Whatever she’d mumbled, what sounded vaguely like an incantation that was barely audible over the thumping beat of her heart in her ears, had to have meant something, but she couldn’t fathom what exactly, not when she was so painfully turned on that even just thinking about it made her clit throb. 

“Someone’s desperate,” Agatha teased. She tugged her bottom lip into her mouth with her teeth and sort of smirked. “I almost feel bad…” 

She was lying, of course, but Rio took the bait anyway. “C’mon, Agatha,” she tried, hoping feigned nonchalance would get her what she wanted, which just happened to be Agatha on top of her. “I know you want it, too.” 

Agatha scoffed. “I know you’re dripping for me, Rio. You can’t hide from me.” 

“Then give me what I want, Agatha,” Rio pressed. She tried her very best to put on that sultry voice she knew would either piss Agatha off or turn her on–either outcome was favourable to waiting. 

“Right,” Agatha smirked. Then, her voice dropped low. “You wanted to feel me?” 

Rio’s breath caught in her chest at that, and she could practically feel her eyes glaze over with sudden arousal. “Yes,” she murmured. 

“Well then…” Agatha lifted her hands from where they were resting on the bed. “Can you feel me?” she asked, her voice barely above a hum. 

Rio moaned then, feeling exactly what Agatha wanted her to–her hand wrapped around the dildo, squeezing just so as it slid right down to the base. “Fuck.”

She hadn’t ever wondered if anything like this was possible, never having considered using her magic in the bedroom this way, and Rio regretted that immensely the very second she felt Agatha’s fingers on the faux-cock attached to her hips. It was an impossible feeling, so tangible yet just out of reach, the sensations crossing and mixing with her own need and arousal, the throbbing of her cunt interspersing the movement of Agatha’s hand.  

A wicked chuckle left Agatha’s mouth, each lilt tightening the muscles in Rio’s lower stomach. “You like that, don’t you? So greedy… but we knew that already.” 

Agatha closed the gap between their mouths at last and slotted her lips between Rio’s, knocking the breath right from Rio’s lungs. It was desperate, no rhythm or true pace, and the unpredictability worsened Rio’s arousal. Her head was full of cotton balls, not a viable thought between the tufts of fluff and fuzz, and it took everything in her to keep kissing Agatha back because of it. 

Agatha’s hand had set a languid pace, so slow Rio could have sworn she wasn’t even moving at times, and god was it torture. The push and pull of her touch was something so unlike anything Rio had ever felt before, her entire body on edge from just the light pressure. It was overwhelming, so unique and specific, the true pleasure just out of reach–so close she could taste it in her mouth, right on her tongue, right where Agatha’s own tongue slid across hers. 

The sudden intrusion surprised her, and Rio moaned at it, the sound completely muffled by Agatha’s mouth. Whatever efforts she was making to reciprocate Agatha’s efforts, to kiss her back against the fog of her need, were moot then, her will futile against the thrum of her lust spreading through her. 

How quickly she dissolved into a puddle in her hands–her hips were canting upward seeking more, imploring Agatha to quicken the pace, but it was no use. Agatha’s hand disappeared and she broke away from Rio’s lips. With a whine, Rio leaned in after her, chasing her warmth and friction, but Agatha was too far gone. Her eyes opened at once, searching for Agatha somewhere far away, but she was still so close, close enough that they may have even been sharing breath, just staring at her with a satisfied smile on her face. 

“Poor thing,” Agatha cooed, her pouty tone a stark contrast to her smug expression. “Don’t you worry, I’ll make sure you get what you need.”

Agatha sank down between Rio’s legs slowly, never once breaking eye contact. Rio wanted to tip her head back and moan, to let out such a gutturally vulgar noise at just how desperately turned on she felt, but she couldn’t fathom tearing her eyes off of Agatha’s face. She looked hungry, her eyes wild with a devious desire that only ever came out when she was at her meanest. Rio knew then she was in for it. 

The image of Agatha kneeling at her feet, slotted right into the open space between Rio’s own weak knees, made her head spin. She’d seen her there before, of course, but the sight never got old. She was peering up at her with dark eyes, an amused smile toying at her lips, and with each passing second Rio could feel more heat pooling in her cheeks with the intensity of it all. Agatha openly admiring her, not the black strap sitting right in front of her eyes was enough to send her head reeling. 

Gently, Agatha’s hands smoothed up Rio’s thighs, her touch warm and electric across her skin. She moaned then, finally releasing the pent-up sound, her hips squirming just slightly at the sensation. 

Agatha’s thumbs pressed firmly inward, two pinpoints of pressure on each of Rio’s thighs. “Ah, ah,” she tutted. “Keep still.” 

Rio slammed her eyes shut, everything becoming too much all at once. “Sorry,” she mumbled, the word clumsy in her dry mouth. 

A laugh. “Don’t be, just behave yourself so I can give you what you asked for.” 

As many times as she’d felt Agatha’s tongue on her, nothing could have prepared her for the rife pleasure of her wet tongue licking a line up the bottom of her cock. She moaned loudly, her hands squeezing so tight around the sheets that she wondered if they might rip as she willed herself not to move. The need to please Agatha in that moment, as her spit was dripping down the strap so exquisitely, was strong; crushing, even. Rio was full of it, overflowing with a desperate need to obey that mixed deliciously with the sweet feeling of Agatha’s touch. 

Gingerly, Rio willed her eyes open and peered down at Agatha. She was staring up at her again, that starved look in her eye, and once Rio met her gaze she smirked.

“You’re all riled up and I haven’t even touched you yet,” she teased, her fingers dragging lightly down Rio’s thighs. “Such a pitiful thing.” 

It was a lie, she was doing so much and she knew it. Against her will, Rio felt her hips twitch in search of friction, of something to soothe the ache she felt building between her legs. “Agatha, please.”

“Look at you using your manners.” Agatha’s tone was condescending, sarcastic, and any other time Rio would have had an equally annoying rebuttal, but with her entire body tense and her head spinning she couldn’t find the words. “You’re so desperate for my attention. It’s pathetic.” 

Rio just nodded, because of course she did, because of course Agatha was right. Rio was pathetically affected, so desperate it was laughable, and every fibre of her being was alight with an insatiable urgency that only Agatha could remedy. She could feel herself dripping onto the bed, her sorely ignored cunt begging for attention she knew it wouldn’t be getting, and she couldn’t even bring herself to care. The foreign, alien feelings elicited by Agatha’s touch on her faux-cock were too heavenly to ignore–what little she’d received already was enough to excuse the aching throb of her clit beneath the base, enough for her to shove the urge to snap her legs closed and squeeze down deep enough she nearly forgot about it completely. 

When Agatha’s mouth finally descended onto the dildo, it was pure bliss. Her tongue laved across the underside as she went down, taking half of it easily between her lips before sucking gently around it. Rio’s stomach clenched hard, every muscle in her body taut as pleasure flooded her, a feeling so unfamiliar and so, so irresistible. She whimpered then, a moan that got caught in her throat spilling out in a broken series of whines, and, without thinking, she lifted one of her hands to Agatha’s hair. 

She tangled her fingers through the long hair that had fallen into Agatha’s face, gathering it and pulling it back so she could see the way the phallus disappeared into her mouth as she set yet another slow pace between her legs. 

Agatha’s head lifted and she looked up. “Careful.” 

It was a warning, but Rio kept her hand there, anyway. She didn’t pull, didn’t tug, she had no intention of interrupting the divine relief of Agatha’s touch. Wanton and ready, fully surrendered, Rio just wanted to see her deliverer as she ascended. 

Rio felt her place a hand near the base of the dildo next, her lithe fingers wrapping around the girth. Agatha lifted her hand once, twice, three times, then she leaned back in, letting the tip loll against her tongue as she welcomed it back into her mouth.. Their eyes locked in an intense stare, Rio watched as Agatha’s head bobbed up and down at a torturous pace, clearly intending to drag whatever this was out. Saliva dripped down the length of it, Agatha’s mouth leaving the strap wet in its wake, her tongue dripping spit right into Rio’s lap when it darted out to swathe closer to the bottom. Her hand worked near the base, twisting gently in time with her lips, and god if Rio wasn’t hellbent on watching every second she was sure she’d be passed out from the sheer intensity of the feeling. 

Agatha took Rio in her mouth like she was starved, filling her mouth to the brim each time she went down. The sounds floating up to Rio’s ears were so terribly pornographic, wet and loud in a way they had never been before, like Agatha was putting in more work now that she knew Rio could feel everything. The thought made her head spin, that Agatha might be doing the most just to please her, and she released another moan, her fingers twitching against Agatha’s scalp. 

As if she knew exactly what Rio was thinking, Agatha doubled down, her hand tightening just slightly as she bobbed lower. She gagged on it, and the sound went straight to Rio’s clit, her cunt throbbing with the vulgar noise and the subsequent flood of saliva from Agatha’s mouth. She groaned, her hips lifting involuntarily from the bed as Agatha’s lips wrapped back around her, the pleasure too much to take sitting still. Agatha didn’t scold her, not this time, and instead she repeated her previous action, gagging on Rio’s length twice more in what Rio could only assume was some twisted reward. 

Her eyes were still glued to Agatha as she pulled herself off, strings of saliva running from her reddened lips to the tip of the dildo. She released the base, and only then was Rio reminded of just how badly she was throbbing, still needing to feel Agatha on her, and she whined. 

Agatha chuckled, her eyes closing gently as she took a breath. “Pathetic,” she mumbled. “Lay back against the pillows,” Agatha said, gesturing toward the bed. 

Scrambling, nearly stupid from just how turned on she was, Rio clambered backward until she fell back onto the plush pillows at the head of the bed. She looked over at Agatha and found her on her feet, watching her fulfill her every request with a heady stare. Only when Rio made eye contact did Agatha begin to move–she pulled down her underwear and tossed it somewhere behind her, then climbed up onto bed after Rio, never once allowing Rio’s gaze to wander.  

A second later, Agatha’s knees bracketed Rio’s hips and her hands pressed into Rio’s shoulders for balance. She looked disheveled, her hair mussed and her face clouded with something carnally aroused, and in that moment Rio was sure she’d never seen anything more beautiful. Her skin nearly shone in the warm light, pleading to be touched at every curve and dip by Rio’s roaming hands, but she resisted. She knew Agatha wouldn’t tolerate any wayward touch, though she hadn’t yet said it–she always knew before Agatha did, anyway. Instead, Rio just set her palms gently on the fronts of Agatha’s thighs, not coaxing, not pressuring, just resting. 

As if to reward her restraint, Agatha began to slowly sink down onto Rio, her hips inching lower as she took the length of the cock inside of her–her mouth open in a soft ‘O’ as her hands squeezed at Rio’s shoulders. Immediately, Rio felt it, the warmth of Agatha’s cunt swallowing her, her silken arousal seeping out around her, and she gasped loudly, shaken by the sheer euphoria of such foreign sensations. And the sight, oh the vision before her of Agatha’s pussy stretching around her cock, taking her in little by little until she bottomed out, it was just too much. The sounds coming from her mouth slowly morphed into a groan, and Rio tossed her head back into the pillows, unable to watch and process the feelings at the same time. 

Agatha just laughed. “You’re not gonna last long,” she teased, tone bordering on desperate as she lifted her hips and sank back down. “This is so embarrassing for you… falling apart the second you’re inside of me…” She moaned then, grinding against Rio with a certain insistence that hit Rio’s clit perfectly. “Aw, honey, that feel good? Should I do it again?” 

Rio turned her head into the pillow beneath her and moaned loudly, her hands twitching where they sat on the fronts of Agatha’s thighs. The coil of pleasure in her stomach had never been wound this tight, and the weight of Agatha’s body effectively immobilizing her only exacerbated it, tightening it more and more with each passing second. She was at her complete mercy, her head full of only Agatha and the euphoria she brought, and she was already on the brink. 

Agatha scoffed, and then Rio felt her strong fingers grab her face. They squeezed at her cheeks and turned her head, pulling her from the soft reprieve of the pillows until she opened her eyes and found she was face-to-face with Agatha’s condescending smirk. Her hips had stilled, and tears welled in Rio’s eyes as her throbbing need swelled, her thighs quivering with the sheer effort of keeping still under her lover.

“I asked you a question,” Agatha sneered. “Should I keep going?” 

Rio nodded as best she could with Agatha’s hand still glued to her face, hoping to get away without needing to find the words, but her efforts were futile. Agatha laughed, taunting and dark, and she leaned in closer to Rio’s ear. 

“Use your words, mi amor,” she purred, voice dripping with honeyed sweetness despite her clear dissatisfaction with Rio’s response. “Tell me how badly you want me to keep fucking myself on your pathetic cock and maybe I’ll do it.” Her tone didn’t match the words coming from her mouth, the thinly veiled threat of denial and disappointment that, rationally, Rio knew wouldn’t pan out, but terrified her nonetheless. “C’mon Rio, you can do it.” 

She was truly ridiculing her now, coaxing Rio deeper into the headspace that had gotten her into this situation in the first place. “Agatha, I-” Rio cut herself off with a moan as Agatha’s tongue darted out to lick the shell of her ear. “Shit, I, god, Agatha, I need it.” 

Agatha hummed and removed her hand from Rio’s face, letting it drag down her neck instead. “That’s it. Beg me for my cunt.” 

A groan ripped from Rio’s throat, her desperation bubbling up from low in her stomach. Each of Agatha’s words was making her throb, her empty and weeping cunt crying out to be filled against the need for Agatha around the phallus that didn’t even belong to her. The conflict was intoxicating, so terribly arousing and so, so confusing. All she knew was that she needed more of Agatha, needed her to sate the insatiable greed she felt radiating from between her thighs. 

“Please, Agatha,” Rio breathed, not bothering to speak clearly with Agatha so close. 

She was kissing the underside of Rio’s jaw now, and she nodded. “That’s it,” she praised, her hips finally beginning to lower. “More.” 

Another moan escaped Rio’s open mouth as she felt the velvet walls of Agatha’s pussy inviting her back in, sending shockwaves of pleasure through her at once. “Agatha, please, I need to be inside of you,” she whined. “Please, you feel so fucking good, Agatha, I’m, fuck-” 

Agatha grinded down then, her hips rocking over Rio’s, and it felt so good Rio could practically taste her incoming release on her tongue. Her face was numb, every muscle in her body somehow tense and liquefied all at once, and it was all Agatha’s fault. 

“I need-”

“Shh, you’ll come with me,” Agatha cooed, accenting her words with a particularly firm drag of her cunt down Rio’s cock. “Don’t be greedy, now, not when you’re getting just what you asked for.” 

Rio wasn’t a stranger to Agatha’s tells, to the flutter of her walls or the arch of her lower back that betrayed her carefully levelled facade, but the allure of them was so much richer when she could feel each one from the inside. It wasn’t just her fingertips that pressed into Agatha, that hit the soft spot inside her with insistence, it was something else entirely, a feeling that Rio couldn’t name nor pinpoint. It spread through her like wildfire, a need to feel more, burning her up from somewhere deep in her gut. 

Somehow, by some impossibility, Rio felt each of Agatha’s movements in her own pussy, both inside her and outside on the dildo Agatha had enchanted. It confounded her deeply, not an ounce of rational explanation coming to her to articulate the specific sensation, but god did it feel good. 

Agatha pressed her face into Rio’s neck then, her hips stuttering, and she moaned. The sound vibrated in Rio’s ear, shaking up the fog of her arousal just enough for her to form a single coherent thought. She lifted her hands from the fronts of Agatha’s legs and wrapped them around to behind her ass, squeezing the flesh firmly as she spoke right into her hair. 

“You gonna come, baby?” 

Agatha scoffed, obviously annoyed by Rio’s sudden composure. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” 

Rio wanted to bite back, an already half-baked quip forming in her mind at once, but it was no use–Agatha bit down on her neck and picked up her pace, and Rio was gone. Somehow, by some freak of nature, she felt her release both inside her and in the dildo, in the inanimate cock that Agatha had strapped to her. It was insanely overwhelming, the feeling so much more rife both from the novelty and added sensations, and she was sure she was going blind from the pleasure. 

Every muscle in Rio’s body quivered with the sheer force of her orgasm, like every ounce of tension was being milked from her body as Agatha rode out her own climax on top of her. Being inside Agatha this way, feeling her come right around her, feeling all of her flutter and clench around her was inexplicable, deeply affecting, so blissful she could feel the synapses in her brain all firing at once as if to capture the moment. 

She was sure it would never ever feel this good again, no matter what either of them did, the novelty a fleeting additive to the experience, and so Rio soaked it all in, letting Agatha overstimulate her in an attempt to drag more out of both of them. Only when the sound of her rushing blood in her ears subsided could Rio hear just how much noise she was making–each breath was a gasp, each exhale a moan. It was pathetic, the sounds so desperate and affected, but she couldn’t bring herself to care as Agatha slowed her pace, her face pressed even tighter into Rio’s neck as her body relaxed. 

“Fuck,” Agatha groaned. 

Rio chuckled, still gasping for air. “Yeah.” 

Agatha rolled off of her then, landing flat on her back next to her. “That was…”

Rio turned her head to look at Agatha and found the end of her unfinished statement. She looked thoroughly fucked out–her entire body shining with sweat, one of her bra straps fallen off her shoulder–, and she was gorgeous. Her hair was all in her face, messy and clinging to the skin with sweat, and her cheeks were bright-red, and all Rio wanted to do was devour her. 

Agatha smiled, chest still heaving from exertion. “Let me know when you’re ready to go again,” she laughed and glanced down at the dildo still strapped to Rio’s hips. “Because I need a turn with that.” 

Rio groaned, rolling over and away in a half-joking refusal. “Come find me in a week.”

“Yeah, right,” Agatha scoffed. She grabbed onto Rio’s shoulder and rolled her back over. “You know you want to.” 

“Maybe.” Mid-eye roll, Rio found herself cut off by a firm press of Agatha’s lips to hers. “Okay, yeah.” 

Agatha kissed her again. “That’s what I thought,” she teased, words clumsy between kisses. 

Rio felt Agatha’s fingers toying at the straps of the harness, and she reached down to help her. “If you’re ready for your turn then I won’t say no.” 

“That’s what I was hoping you’d say.”

[happeehippie]

instagram j.b.

summary: follow along with joe and his wife evie as they go through his football career

*face claim is yasmin quintana*

series masterlist

evie

liked by joeyb_9, millyg, and 809,295 others

evie: i love you, don’t act so surprised.

view all 3,739 comments…

user: you’re the cutest

millyg: beautiful beautiful bestie

> evie: miss you so much mills 🥺

user: you deserve the best, we love you too.

joeyb_9: no surprise here.

> evie: big head

> lahjay10_: brother is full of himself

> user: yall have a situation on your hands

user: a post without joe? that’s the only reason i follow you.

> evie: jb content coming soon.. if you’re lucky.

bengals

liked by simonebiles, evie, sam_hubbard_ and 561,738 others

bengals: guess who’s back 🎶

view all 10,836 comments…

evie: i ain’t mad, i just think it’s fucked up you don’t answer fans.

> joeyb_9: i meant to write you sooner, but i just been busy.

> user: this is what i aspire to be when i fall in love.

heykayadams: oh!

user: JOE WHAT DID YOU DO

> evie: he broke the law of “don’t mess with your hair without telling your wife”

user: I can’t believe ev let this happen

> evie: this was out of my control im afraid. i’ve been in mourning since it happened..

user: oh no sirrrr

user: the real joey b

joeyb_9

liked by bengals, evie, and 490,736 others

joeyb_9: kid in a candy store

view all 2,729 comments…

evie: slay

> joeyb_9: everyday 😏

> user: oh someone stop him

user: joe it’s giving bleachella

user: the new hair looks amazing!

user: joey b in his slvt era

user: babe, i thought we talked about this.

user: number make you laugh sometimes (again)

user: blondes have more fun.

> evie: are you telling me i’ve been missing out all these years?

> user: girl.. you used to be blonde.

> evie: that was besides the point……. 😅

evie

liked by joeyb_9, lahjay10_, and 720,189 others

evie: classic cowboy..

view all 8,628 comments…

user: the princess of cincy

> evie: you’re too kind 💗

millyg: are those homemade cinnamon rolls??? without me????

> evie: i made them per request by jb.

user: you are obsessed with cowboys.

> evie: it’s all the westerns my grandpa made me watch.. and maybe a little bit of Scott Eastwood in the longest ride…..

> user: she’s just a girl

joeyb_9: arcade showdown: jb-1 ev-0

> evie: i let you win.

> lahjay10_: nah i know you ain’t let him win yall both too competitive

> evie: @lahjay10_ get out my comments! 😭

joeyb_9

liked by bengals, evie, and 830,172 others

joeyb_9: hunting

view all 2,738 comments…

user: it’s that time

user: i’m the prey

> evie: wow.. you don’t look like a championship.

> user: the sass…

user: let’s go king

evie: finish the story, jb.

> joeyb_9: if you make one more cody rhodes/eminem reference im taking away your wifey privileges.

> evie: in the wise words of @lahjay10_ i know you lyin.

> lahjay10_: now don’t bring me into this shit.. me and slim got work to do.

> user: if there’s one thing ja’marr is going to do it’s pick ev’s side. joe are you jealous?

> evie: he is.

user: revenge season.

user: you’re so cutie

evie

liked by bengals, joeyb_9, and 730,002 others

evie: sleeps till gamedey=zero

view all 2,829 comments…

user: go joey b!

millyg: obsessed.

> evie: i love you

user: queen of the nfl

> evie: don’t make me cry rn

user: WTF was that game?? Tell Joe to quit playing scared

> evie: that was the game of a man who hasn’t played full contact football in almost ten months because of injury. why don’t you get down there?

> user: he’s supposed to be a professional, what a loser.

> evie: go cry about it in someone else’s comments.

> joeyb_9: ev, you are my knight in shining armor.

> evie: efff these guys.

user: comments are getting crazy huh?

user: i wanna be you so bad

joeyb_9

liked by evie, lahjay10_, alo, and 821,027 others

joeyb_9: INHALE. EXHALE. RUN. #alorunner

view all 2,810 comments…

user: why you look that?

evie: suddenly i’m very into running..

> user: she’s just like us

> joeyb_9: should we like race?

> evie: no way, your legs are way longer than mine. you’re trying to scam me.

user: looking the best i’ve seen! let’s geaux!

user: love you bae

user: whoa

> evie: same.

user: JOSEPH

> evie: we in fact were not ready..

evie’s stories

[csainzsgirly]

I would love something with Mr. Charles Leclerc. He's been away for 21 DAYS due to the triple header and his wife (the reader) has had enough. She puts on a special lingerie set she recently bought in a colour she knows Charles will love and waits (im)patiently for her lovely husband. The moment she sees him coming through the front door wearing the outfit shown in the photo I attached to this request, she can't take her hands off him. (His arms in that photo make me drool) She needs him right there, right now. So Charles gives her everything she wants including an orgasm for every single day they weren't together and the filthiest dirty talk in French. Thank you very much ☺️.

We all want to put our teeth in his biceps, don't we? warnings: 18+, google translated french (mon dieu), charles being so hot and getting deserved head, him giving it raw (be responsible irl please) and giving orgasms that are illegally good.

Your body collides with Charles with a soft oof, but he catches you effortlessly nevertheless. He laughs as he spins you around in the hallway, your face buried in the soft material of his shirt, the bare skin of your thighs wrapping around the linen pants he was wearing. He could barely make the sentence I missed you so much from your muffled voice, your lips pressing to his neck to reclaim him as yours. "I missed you more, baby," Charles replied, his other arm wrapping around you after he dropped his bag in the hall. "An eight time Grand Prix came back home to me," you purr, your ankles locking behind his back as he hadn't moved from his position in the hallway yet. "I'm so proud of you," you continue, happily accepting the kiss he pressed to your lips. Charles shifted you a little in his arms to hold onto you better, hands finding the bare skin under the silk robe you were wearing.

The robe fell open with the slightest movement, revealing the pretty set you were wearing, the see-through lace doing little to cover your tits properly. You grew hotter under his eyes, his pupils widening and the crystal colours fading into a dark swirl that caused a shiver to run up your spine. "Charles..." you hum, your fresh manicure tickling his biceps when you ran your hands over him, feeling the taut muscles before your palms warmed his chest. "Don't make me wait," you finish. "You're that needy?" he breathes, his lips brushing over yours, leaning back when you wanted to kiss him. You whine in response, your lower lip jutted out slightly. "Tu es tellement nécessiteux que tu veux que je t'emmène ici?" Charles asks, his palms kneading your ass, pulling you over his growing erection as your back hit the wall in the hallway.

"Oui," you reply with a small voice. "Need you here, now," you feel out of breath without having done anything. Your lips mold together in the most delicious kiss you could have wished for after not being able to kiss him for 21 days. Charles groans against your mouth when your hands continue to run over him, riding up his shirt, feeling his abs, your nails scratching his pecs. "Want if off," you muttered, gasping when his lips kiss down your throat to your neck next, the stubble on his jaws and cheek tickling your skin. Charles put you back on your feet, complying with your request to get his shirt off, swinging it over his head and dropping it somewhere. You slipped your arms out of the robe, letting it fall to the floor as well. "Putain, tu es tellement belle," he whistles through his teeth, his hands feeling you up, pulling you against him again. Your fingers dance across the waistband of his sweats, pulling on the string to loosen it.

You don't waist time sliding down to your knees, dragging his pants down and freeing his awfully hard erection from his shorts. Your pussy clenches around thin air at the mere sight of his cock, the shape so perfect, the girth making your mouth water, the slick leaking from your cunt ruining the fine lace of your thong. No sight was as pretty as looking up at Charles while you had his cock between your lips. The sigh that escaped him was enough to make you whine around his cock while your hand stroked him, your tongue lapping around the sensitive tip before you took more of him. He plants a hand against the wall behind you, muscles in his upper body flexing while the other hand moved into your hair in the back of your neck. Charles grunts as he keeps your hair out of your face, his hips rolling forward with each flick of your tongue and bob of your head.

Charles' abs clench as he watches you gag and struggle, your eyes glistening slightly as the corners started to water. "Prends-moi bien, bébé," he compliments through gritted teeth, watching you gasp for air as you pull back slightly. He's obsessed with seeing you like this, looking up at him with big eyes, your lips glossy from your spit, swollen from sucking him so well. Your hand glides over his cock again, you're about to take him back in your mouth as he pulls you up. "J'ai besoin de te goûter," he mutters, taking his turn to get on his knees, moving one of your legs over his shoulder. You could barely register the moment he pulled your thong aside, his hot mouth landing on your pussy without a warning, his tongue diving between your folds and licking you up. Your back arching off the wall and your fingers curling into his hair. "Charles..." you moan, the coil in your lower abdomen tightening when he sucked your clit into his mouth. His stubble scraped over your thighs, roughing up your soft skin.

His palms kneaded your ass again, pulling you more over his mouth. He licked, slurped, sucked, like you were the first thing he ate after a twelve-hour journey back home, making you whine and mewl with desperation to cum. And he wanted you to cum on his tongue. Charles' pace quickened when he noticed your short breaths, the frantic pulling on his hair. White-hot pleasure clouded your vision when your body reached a peak it had been craving since the morning he left for the triple header. He had been too busy for phone sex and your fingers simply couldn't do what he could. Your knees buckled with a difficulty to keep standing up, so he got up as well, his body pressing against yours to keep you up right. You weakly moaned against his mouth when he kissed you, tongue brushing over your lower lip before deepening the kiss, fingers dancing down your stomach and past the elastic band of your thong.

"F-fuck," you tremble when two of his fingers enter you, easily finding home between your slippery walls. "Shit, baby, you're so fucking wet," he muttered, pulling his fingers out of you to lick them clean before he gently let them enter you again. "Look at me," Charles demands, making you lift your eyes to his as he starts a pace that has you on the brink of an orgasm embarrassingly fast already. He curls them up against your g-spot, fingertips massaging the sensitive spot inside you. You're a mess when you cum on his fingers, an arm around your waist making sure you don't fall over. "Need to be inside you," his voice rasps. "Need you inside me," you emphasize, causing a small smirk to curl his lips before he turns you around, forcing your back to arch a little so he can easily pull your hips back. "Mon dieu, I missed this pussy," Charles growls, sinking into you deeply with a swift thrust of his hips.

Your eyelids flutter as he spreads you open, the sensitiveness of your previous orgasm and the burn of your stretching walls causing your lips to part with a nearly pornographic moan. You're slightly disappointed he turned you around to fuck you from behind, as your fingers were itching to dig into his shoulders, to claw at his back. Charles' first thrusts were slow, and he was taking in the feeling of your perfect cunt around him, squeezing him tight, inviting him to push in deeper, before he quickened the pace to fuck you hard and deep. You couldn't keep your sounds down anymore, skin to skin sounds filling the hallway, the wall becoming nearly uncomfortably hard as you leaned your forearms against it. "That's it, baby. You're so good to me," he praised, knowing you were close as you cried out his name when his fingers landed on your clit.

You felt on the edge of passing out, the pleasure curling your toes and swirling up your nerve system, a hand reaching back for him letting him know you needed a couple of seconds. Charles grew possibly even harder at seeing you struggle to take him, your hand landing flat on the wall in attempt to steady yourself, moving your balance from one leg to the other, his cock still inside you. He had to pull out briefly to turn you around, lift you up against him. Your arms curled around his shoulders, ankles locking behind his back again. He moved you up and down his cock, struggling to hold himself together as well, feeling on the brink of his release for a couple of minutes already, but he needed to make you cum again, needed to make up for the time he was gone. There was nothing he loved more than taking care of his girl. "Charles, baby," you whined, nails digging into his arms that were holding you tightly.

Your tits were bouncing as he fucked you harder, the straps of your bra had fallen down your arms, the lace of your thong stretched so far you were sure it was ruined forever now. You looked so gorgeous to him, so fucked out, cock drunk, overstimulated. Nothing felt better than his body tensing against yours, hot seed painting your walls and his grunts against your mouth. You ran your hands over his broad shoulders, feeling his skin that was slightly damp with sweat now. "Welcome home," you said, a little out of breath. A smile curled his lips as he let out a small chuckle. "I missed you," he repeated, kissing your lips sweetly before letting you slowly down the floor. "I'm so happy you're back," you added, kissing him once more. "You don't think I'm done with you, right?" Charles' lips trail down your jaw again. "I sure hope you're not," you hum, feeling him getting hard again.

[nightlyrequiem]

A request of with Valeria and fem reader inspired by the song let me love you by Mario. Where basically Valeria is interested in the reader but reader is in a shitty relationship and Valeria basically convinces them to leave their partner for her and then treats the reader miles better and like they're royalty

I think I really cooked here. I got to write a little bit of angst and some wholesomeness

Listened to this song and I think I have to add it to my playlist. I'm certainly always going to associate it with Valeria forever now

I'm not going to lie, I put off writing this because I wasn't sure how to even start it but once I did start it came so easily. Fun request to write. I had a good time writing it and I hope you have a good time reading it.

Tags/Warnings: WLW, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Happy Ending, Romance, Mentions of Cheating

Let Me Love You

Valeria has had her eyes on you for a while. Pretty much since she first met you, she's been pining. A dog at your feet, tail thumping against the ground. Softness isn't in her nature. Valeria is vicious, and mean, and violent, but never with you. An intricate, priceless glass sculpture. Made to be handled with the upmost care. Shined and dusted every day. Instead, you're pushed aside on a crowded shelf and left to deteriorate. Accidently dropped and cracked but never repaired. Pieces of you broken off and haphazardly swept into a trash bag.

You're sobbing in her arms. So hard that you're gasping for breath, shoulders tense and jerking with each wretched cry. He cheated on you again. She pushes your face into the crook of her neck. Hoping her scent makes you forget the smell of the cheap perfume you smelled on his shirt. 

"It's like you enjoy being hurt." Valeria whispers into your hair. Hand trailing between your shoulder blades. "I don't understand why you stay." When I'm right here.

"We've been together for years." You reply shakily. Voice cracking devastatingly. Valeria gently lowers herself onto the bed. You held in her lap. Valeria has her arms around you like a cocoon. Keeping you safe while you metamorphize. A delicate little moth.

It frustrates Valeria to no end. If you were her girl, you'd never know this kind of pain. You'd never be conditioned into feeling anxious when she's late to coming home. Your glow would never be dampened with her.

"Stop doing this to yourself." She says. Pressing a kiss to your temple. "Stop going back to that little boy, he doesn't deserve you." Not like I do.

"I can't." You weep. She can feel your brows furrowing against her neck, the quiver of your lips. Your warm breath hitting her skin in puffs. "I can't do it, Val."

"You can." She insists firmly. "... Leave him. You are a star in the vast night sky, corazón. He's nothing but light pollution hiding your beauty." Valeria pulls you tighter against her, heart pounding with finality. "Please, just be with me instead." Valeria Garza doesn't beg but she'd take a knee for you.

You go still and Valeria suddenly fears that she said the wrong thing. Pushed too far. She pulls back and gently takes ahold of your face, wiping away the crystal tears running streams over your warm cheeks. Glossy eyes brimming with misery stare back at her.

"Let me love you." She says softly. "I'll treat you so much better than him." 

She can see her longing reflected in your tears. She watches your throat move as you swallow. Valeria leans closer, brushing her nose against yours. Your lips brush and when you don't pull away, she presses her lips to yours. Drinking in your taste with reverence. Your fingers grip her hair, pulling her impossibly closer. Your salty tears breaching the seams of your lips.

She kisses you like she'll never get the chance to again. Sand slipping through her fingers. You pull away and let out a shuddering breath.

"It hurts so much." You say, pained. Pressing your face into her shoulder. "Make it stop. Please, Valeria, make it stop. Make me feel better. Make me better."

Valeria grasps your chin to make you look at her. "You're not going back to him." She says resolutely. Valeria's hands drift down to your shoulders. "Stay with me."

"I'm scared."

"Stay with me."

"Okay." You close your eyes. "I'll stay."

You stay the night. Layers of clothing peeled from your bodies. Laying skin to skin under the covers with your hands locked together. You fell asleep hours ago but Valeria fights the tiredness dragging at her eyelids. She's savoring this moment with you. She watches your eyelids flutter as you dream. Is it her face or his that you're seeing? All you've known is hurt but Valeria will change that.

"Shit!" You curse. Face scrunched in despair.  "I burnt them!" The cookies you were making together are hard and stuck to the pan. Blackened with heat. Valeria snorts.

"I told you not to leave them in there for that long."

"I wanted to make sure the dough was fully cooked." You reply defensively. Taking off your oven mitts and setting them down on the marble counter. "Salmonella is no joke, Valeria."

"No, but those cookies might be."

You swat at her, and she catches your hand, bringing it to her lips and pressing a chaste kiss to it. It's been months since you last sobbed in her arms, pleading for her to make it better. You haven't cried since. Valeria's gone above and beyond for you. Giving all of herself to you.

There have been some downs, naturally. So used to being on the defense and being suspicious, you'd get set off if she forgot to tell you she'd be late coming home. Valeria held you with endless reassurances. Never forgetting to tell you again. You've become so sure of yourself now. Evidence of you all over her home. Projects, clothes, art, interests. You are heard, you are seen, and you take up space. The cocoon cracked open, and you crawled out with your velvety wings quivering. Breathing in your new beginning.  

[peapodbond]

that was us

abby tears her rotator cuff and doesn't get her range of motion back after the surgery and rehab. she quits swimming.

one of her friends is going through med school and they go out together sometimes, and there's a rotating group of first responders who come out with the residents because they've gotten to know each other at the hospital.

she's not really in a partying mood, and sometimes she can drift to the back of the group and talk with the tall firefighter who looks as awkward as she feels. they spend an entire evening dissecting love actually and debating if die hard can be seen as the sequel where alan rickman's character finally gets what he deserves.

she tries training other swimmers. but some of them are the people she competed with, the rest are babies, and other than "you really shouldn't exceed the coach's orders on practice time" and "maybe don't go to a roller rink when you're not great on rollerskates", she doesn't have much to teach them. they've already got their forms down, and while she can hold their arms in the proper positions, she can't show it to them in the pool without aching for the rest of practice. the doctors warn her that if she keeps trying she might end up with more damage.

she gets a receptionist position. it's fine. it's boring. she learns how to balance a company's books and how to direct visitors to the correct office.

she and the firefighter (tommy) spend two months at the bar debating the 1995 bbc pride and prejudice.

she quits her job. abby says she wants to do something that means something. a friend of her friend looks at abby and suggests she tries dispatch. what the hell. it's three months of training. it's not like she's getting roped into eight years of med school.

the first time she's able to help someone at dispatch it feels like winning a race.

she asks tommy if he wants to grab a coffee.

it's really easy to talk to tommy. they recommend books to each other, go to the movies a lot. they date casually. abby's not sure she wants something serious right now. they spend weeks hitting up every small hole in the wall they can find.

abby offers to bring tommy lunch at the fire house. his face does something complicated and he admits that his captain isn't a great guy. tommy would rather keep abby away from him.

she tells him if it gets worse he should try and switch houses.

tommy finishes his probationary year and takes abby out to the fanciest restaurant she's ever been to. they both hate it and end up grabbing a burger on the way home.

they're not living together but they are spending almost every night together. abby gets a lead on a gorgeous apartment fifteen minutes away from dispatch. tommy and his friend sal help her move all her furniture in. tommy's lease was renewed before she found out about the apartment, but he's over so much it barely matters.

the family introduction goes well. he charms her mother and her brother thinks he's pretty great, choices in sports teams aside. three months after she moves into her new place, tommy makes her dinner and proposes.

(it's so much better than the fancy restaurant.)

she catches him looking at houses. it's just a thought he has, finding a place that needs to be fixed up. maybe he keeps it, maybe he sells it later, but there are so many places around town that just need a little love to be good again.

the housing market crashes in the recession and tommy finds a small two-storey place that's closer to the harbor station, which is when abby finds out that tommy wants to fly again, he's just waiting for a spot to open.

she thinks that's much safer than running into burning buildings, but she doesn't say that out loud.

he signs for the house the next day, and abby starts looking at paint chips. she's not much for do it yourself, but she knows how to paint a mean wall. it's an older house and she does research about what colours were common when they were built, knows that tommy wants to preserve the original house as much as possible.

she's priming the newly drywalled living room when there's a loud curse from down the hall and the sledgehammer tommy is using to tear down the kitchen crashes into the wall.

his captain tanked tommy's transfer to harbor.

tommy's miserable. she doesn't know what to say to make it better, because there is no way to make that better.

abby knows what's coming when he sits her down a few weeks later. (if he hadn't, she was going to.) she leaves the ring on the kitchen island. it's the only thing that survived the sledgehammer. part of her wants to ask for updates on the house. the rest of her knows a clean break is better.

"i really hope you get what you need."

and that's that.

part two

[jinxini]

thoughts while watching episode 2! ☆

summary: necessary amount of love for jinx, unnecessary amount of child hate lmao

oh my baby girl i love u it's ok don't be sad please

jinx focused episode let's gooo

me: omg was that a flash of powder?!

*rewinds*

me: ...who the fuck is that.

me: oh no. oh no. this kid is important enough to make it to the intro, jinx is going to take care of this child isn't she. that sure is... a choice

oh no the kid is here

ugh for me personally the only thing worse they could have done is make her pregnant or have a baby. i hate storylines like this im so sorry. it's different when the parent-child relationship is like the main focus or the premise of the show/movie (the mandalorian, the last of us, the walking dead game, silco taking care of powder who's the main character), but when a random ass child shows up years late to the party and needs someone to take care of them and the child character has no previous connection to the audience... i really dislike that in stories im so sorry. leave jinx alone

also, in what world is jinx ready to be a mother figure to anyone lmao she's very much stuck in a child-like state herself half the time. this is not what she needs, we both deserve better

i like the child's design though

honestly, i hope arcane makes me take all that i just said back, but we'll see

jinx i love you

her voice is so good, the voice acting is sooo good oh my god

does she kinda have a different vibe or is it just me?

honestly thought she would be doing a lot worse than she is. good for her!

don't get me wrong, i get that from the orphan's point of view jinx just saved her life and she's clearly super strong, what else is she supposed to do than follow

what i'm saying is that i personally do not want jinx to take care of a child right now. i want this to be about the sisters. the fact that i don't like this is on me, the writers can obviously do whatever they want with their story buuut.....

sevika<3

can't wait for her and jinx to team up

wait does sevika even know that jinx was the one who killed silco?

i don't know what's going on with viktor and whatever he's saying here is not helping

did she though?

everything viktor does now is so slow. the way he speaks, the way he moves...

im not a jayvik girlie but i imagine that those who are felt rly sad after this scene

ekko my boy! the biker mouse from mars can speak?

my brother: he really does look like one

i literally facepalmed and my brother groaned

ekko please ditch this creature you're better on your own

shut up. you're not cute, you're not funny.

i should probably clarify that heimer is my least favourite character in the show, i kinda have no patience for anything he does 😂

i literally said DO IT JAYCE out loud

this made me laugh

same, ekko, same.

can we talk about the way he's holding the cup lol

it's also kinda funny and kinda sad at the same time that this is probably his first time tasting tea

SHUT UUUUPPPP

i screamed

vi? nooo, what the hell 😫 i thought it was the bad guys after her but no it's VI? don't hurt jinx like this, don't hurt me like this

the animation is making me feel like i'm the one who can't breathe damn

hasn't my girl been through enough?? stooooppp

this looked really cool though

there's no way those were the only two times he saw her cry

also, she's insane, blinking and getting even closer. i am obsessed with her

YESSSHHHH

after getting her ass kicked by vi and jinx repeatedly in season 1, i have a feeling this is a battle she's finally going to win 😆

the whole-body movement she did here, so cute, i love her so much 😭

GET JINXED OMG!!!!!!!! 💙💙💙💙💙

holy shit you can always trust arcane with fight scenes

my brother: no one does fight scenes better than arcane.

me: i know right?! that was so good! best scene in season 2 so far!

brother: yep.

oh wow ok. girl, 1st of all, ew. 2nd of all, that thing was like 80% machine what was there left for you to eat? 3rd of all... this begs the question, what do these people eat, exactly? do they draw the line at cannibalism but everyone else is fair game? huh.

i doubt the people in piltover eat like this

no, let's not do that<3

what is he, jesus? this is a bit too much.

[georgiapeach30513]

Just because it's Friday and I think it may help with a few reminders in case your inbox starts to get flooded with the same old bs since a movie is releasing today:

R1 was filmed two years ago. It was supposed to be released at the end of last year but got delayed. The movie is now releasing this weekend so of course there will be tons of promotion because I'm sure the Rock and his crew spent a hefty amount on marketing and PR for this film. Chris is second billing so he's going to help with promoting the film and if that includes some other fluff pieces, then so be it. And People magazine loves to write fluff posts.

The movie was filmed TWO years ago. Chris has long moved on from this film, despite whatever reception it may get, and people may want to remember that. He is apparently already back to work on his most recent project, and he's already filmed two other projects this year. Nobody knows when these films plan to release or how they will release, but I expect it'll happen in the next few months or year.

Chris has had some recent misfires and from what I can see, it feels like some decisions were rushed due to the pandemic and also perhaps some business decisions made on the backend (get some bigger paychecks, then cushion your way to doing some smaller indie films). The way his last three projects appear to be much smaller in budget and scale, I think this is a safe bet that's what happened.

If your intention is to go looking for confirmation bias, that's what you're going to get. Searching for bad reviews and justifying it as a reason to be mad or upset, of course you're going to revel in misery loves company.

It looks like Chris did a great job in this otherwise lackluster movie and he has a lot of charm and charisma, but him carrying the film on his back isn't much if he's the only one doing the lifting. JK Simmons actually did lift heavy weights but he got wasted in this film because of his role being the "kidnapped Santa." So I wouldn't harp too much on that.

General audiences and critics are disappointed Chris's post MCU career hasn't been super exciting, but most agree they think he deserves better and wants better for him. Perhaps it's a testament the legacy he left in his most famous role, that has people just rooting for him regardless. Let's see what he does next. I think he's slowly carving a new path as we speak.

Lastly: Remember that in the world of public relations, marketing, and entertainment, agenda is always underlying. That being said, sometimes less famous and less influential people latch onto the more influential and famous in order to get a leg up. This usually happens when someone either doesn't have the ability themselves, or there's a bigger and more strategic story behind everything or there's transactional mutual benefits. Why do actresses like Sydney Sweeney and Florence Pugh seem to be able to go so far on their own, while others like Jordan Hudson (aka Bill Belichick's new gf) or every one of Leo D's gfs of the last decade seem to pop up on scene leveraging their relationships to get attention? Well...think about it. For example, Jordan is a former collegiate cheerleader that is now dating a famous ex head NFL coach. She's getting a lot of press right now due to this relationship and she was papped showing up to cheerleading practice recently in a Porsche. I'll just leave you with that. (And no, I don't think it's just because Bill is suddenly going through his mid-life crisis when he's 70 years old.)

You know what, anon? I’m not going to add anymore to this post. You’ve said it all.

I will say, I’m going in a few hours to watch the movie. Got a snack box made for us, and I’ll see what it has to offer. People who think that a Christmas movie with Dwayne is going to anything more than fun, high octane, and goofy are fooling themselves.

And let’s be honest, most people haven’t checked out a ton of Chris’ movies outside of Knives Out and Marvel anyways. They want him to do more unique roles, and he has, but they don’t watch 🙄 he’s creating the career he wants.

[soulfulazrael]

Stolas and Stella. Shallow conflict that could be so much more. Conflict of two Hells and torment of the immortal.

So... another post that probably will be another long Yap fest of a weirdo who has only the brainpower to make threads on a cartoon. Eh. Could be worse. My drive to make this post was sparked by this one image (or well... two).

Great... Very subtle... Deserves a medal don't you think? Ah well. Today's subject as you can tell from the image presented here is RELATIONSHIPS! Or rather one set of relationships that has been bothering me and inspired me to do better in my own work based on this show. This disaster that is the Stella/Stolas/Octavia dynamic is one huge problem in my eyes and I will explain that below with some thoughts of mine and why this particular image sparked such vitriol in my peanut brain.

I think the biggest and most noticeable problem that can be seen straight away in this one picture and entire show that... it is just so damn simple. Way too simple and 1 dimensional which this show tries to parade as something meaningful and deep. I mean one look at it and you can see all of the problems. Stella is made into a laughing all evil bastard. Octavia FOR SOME REASON is just angry at Stolas and makes a mean face which makes no sense given how they interact. And Stolas is presented as some tragic, deeply hurt figure when he is in fact the architect of most of his own miseries, but the show seems to believe in that horseshait.

And at first one who only has this picture as any sort of context may say that "It's okay. The wife is obviously an evil capital B, but the daughter in this whole equation adds to the complexity and the feeling of that the dad also screwed up heavily".

Except to anyone who actually watched the show this makes no sense because Octavia has literally NO reason to ever side or ignore her mother's stupid and malicious behavior. It's one thing where you want to include a complex dynamic where the sides are more blurred and another where you make one side so obviously WORSE. Not to mention stupid and seemingly unable to hide any of their douchebaggery.

And it's another issue of the show as a whole where it just cannot for the life of it have complex antagonists and most of them are pretty much the same damn archetype. Both shows do that in fact. Because both HH and HB work in the same way. They all have the same kind of snickering abuser who loves to torment their victim and they are about as smart as average Twitter Blue buyer. I mean can you tell me ANY sort of difference between someone like Val, Stella, Crim or Mammon? Any of them? Besides their designs and people they abuse? You probably have to think it through and I think it goes to show how all of them are so damn similar to each other. To the point where they are all almost exactly the same boring character.

And funny thing is? It didn't have to be this way. And this second image feels like more of an insult for two reasons.

Still not perfect, but it's better somewhat And the reason for that is... it feels like actually a bit subtle. You have less cramming in of how terrible Stella is. Octavia being a more oblivious child and Stolas while caring for her being more absent minded. That creates an interesting dynamic and Stella has some air of mystery to her where she can be taken in many directions.

They just chose the absolute dumbest one. And that's why this image makes me mad. It shows they COULD do better, but choose not to and that this art serves no other purpose than just to say STELLA LE BAD. And they have no other agenda with it. No other way to interpret it because of that second stupid one. It narrows and destroys so much potential. Almost as much as that picture of baby Stella from Circus.

And I think another big issue I kind of mentioned before is this parade of complexity. It wants to put on facade of being complex and having something to say, but it really doesn't. It provides a very simple and dumbed down story with clear good and bad side where one side is cartoonishly evil to the point of being moronic while other one is paraded as a victim to end all victims and they put in a dress of sad crying scenes and the daughter being pissed for no reason at clearly good party because the idiotic plot demands it.

And other big issue... Is that this does not explore ANY interesting ideas. No interesting dynamics. No interesting implications or provides any sort of value to the world or explores anything in this world of HELL. Where you can make the world feel wild and interesting and the ways this world shaped those people. The ways those people are broken. The ways you can expand on this conflict beyond the surface level idiocy.

And I want here to present an example of a story rather similar... that did this right. So right it's almost comedic. I am talking about a story of Bloody Baron from Witcher 3 so for all people who did not play this almost 10 year old game (holy shit W3 came out almost 10 years ago... Can you slow down time?) then I must warn you. For the rest who did play or don't care. Enjoy.

Seems appropriate. Bloody Baron questline is probably one of the most impactful, complex and interesting conflicts I've seen in any game. A story of abuse, trauma and pain in a family of Bloody Baron, his wife Anna and daughter Tamara. amazing writing, great voice acting, great characters all that good stuff. But let me tell you why it's so good.

First off. The characters. They are all very well written and are very believable. Bloody Baron especially is a sad mess of a man. An ex veteran, drunkard and abuser who tries to find his wife and their daughter she took with her when she escaped from him after their recent fight. A fact Geralt is not aware of, one of many he and us by extension are not aware of.

This may already sound rather familiar and stay with me because it gets better. What works so well with character of Bloody Baron is that while he is at first a completely unlikeable person that gets worse over time as you discover more filth in his story, he is also extremely human. He is no caricature and you can tell why he became the way he is and you can tell he is full of great regrets and despite his actions still holds a lot of love for both his daughter and wife. He is someone who did terrible things to his family, someone very rash and very brutal, but he is not a total and complete monster. He watched his own other child die partially as a consequence of his own actions. Lost his family. He lost almost everything besides an army of men that couldn't give less of a shit about him and a home in a dreadful swamp full of monsters. His character greatly explores the mind of someone very broken, someone who lost himself to alcohol and ended up making a ton of terrible mistakes and now tries to atone for them. But we also see in flashbacks that he can be also a caring man as he helped Ciri and little girls she saved. He is no less of a terrible person because of it, but it adds humanity to him.

And other two characters in this do not fall far behind as well. Anna especially is also a very broken shell of a person. And despite what one may think she is also not innocent in all of this as she is someone who first cheated on the Baron after he went out to war. Leaving him for some other man as he was putting his life on the line for them (while also falling to alcoholism as well). And when she was confronted about it and when her lover got slaughtered by Baron she broke and started to try to kill him and herself which started the abuse from Baron who only found this to be a good way to calm her down and Anna herself was a clearly traumatized woman who was now in a cage with the Baron.

And in between all of that was a young, very scared child of both. Tamara who saw only the abuse her mother received and felt like it was all her father's fault for everything breaking apart around them and eventually devoting herself to group of Eternal Flame as a way of handling her situation. She still received lots of love from her father, but could never see him as anything less than a monster.

All of them in this scenario... probably feel oddly familiar. And it's funny because in many ways they ARE like Stolas and Stella and Octavia. But roles are somewhat moved and the conflicts feel far more real. Tamara is not for some reason seeing the abuser as lesser evil seemingly. She sees the abuse, but doesn't know a full story much like Geralt or anyone else. Baron in this case is in many ways like Stella. He is someone who abuses their partner and goes into violent rage when they leave them, but unlike Stella you can tell there is this lingering love for his family that further fuels this abuse and brings more pain to everyone while Anna is a broken mess of a woman who cheated on her husband and paid terrible price for it and kept paying as... she sold her upcoming child to terrible witches. Or rather she wished for it to die and for it sold her soul.

And this I think is what makes this story all the stronger. It's not just the tragedy or realism. It's how it ties into the world of Witcher as a whole where we are introduced to some of the most harrowing set pieces of the game and some of the most disturbing villains in the game who also simply act upon their nature as deal makers with Anna and simply know something about Geralt's own daughter Ciri (who they tried to eat). It expands the world and uses it in a meaningful way and pushes more interesting ideas like the side of Anna caring for children at the swamp that are meant to be devoured by witches. Another Hell that ends either with her complete breakdown or death, but also either suicide of the Baron or redemption as he tries to save her and no longer drink or abuse her. While Tamara no matter what has to also face her own consequences of having to forever be tied to Endless Flame, but also putting faith in her father in the good ending and possibly ending with their relationship beginning to heal.

And all of that feels natural. This kind of story definitely can be told anywhere, this kind of story doesn't need this setting, but it further enriches it. And I think another big part of this story I like is that it doesn't try to paint any side as being in the RIGHT. Because in this kind of situation NO PARTY is in the right... And as someone who did went through similar thing... I respect that. And that is why I cannot accept what HB does. In this situation there are no good guys or bad guys... Just people who keep making mistakes (and don't worry, family may be a bit broken, but I still love both my parents no matter how far one may be).

And it is funny because story of Bloody Baron in many ways is how the whole situation with Octavia and her family SHOULD look like. A very harrowing story where there is no place for good or bad sides. Where you have to choose FOR YOURSELF who is more at fault. And the game leaves that decision to you. It does not tell you what to think. It tells you to think. One of the writers who made that whole story said once "I do not like likeable characters. I like interesting characters". And I think that is also where the writing suffers. It tries to paint one side as "likeable", but because of that it removes so much complexity from the character by excusing all of their awful behavior or painting them as ultimate victim. And do not try to tell me also that because Stella is so easy to hate then they are well written. That's not true. Making hateable character is the easiest thing in the world. Just put everything bad in them and make them not like protagonist and oppose them. That's it. It's lazy.

And that also makes me so mad about HB because they were CLOSE to making something good. Not exactly the same as Bloody Baron, but something of it's own that could also be good.

I personally make a fic called "Song for the Quiet Bird". There I partially explore characters of Stolas and Stella and Octavia and I try to paint the entire situation in a more gray light where each side is not truly in the right. Where both of them are in their own ways broken people. And to do so I also try to use something I wish Viv used which is Immortality of Ars Goetia which could have been a thing, but Viv decided to make Stolas like 30 because then you have cute Stolas and Blitzo arts as kids.

In my version both have lived already for 800 years. They lived already for a long time and there is eternity waiting ahead and both cope in their own ways that were taught to them by the world of Hell to not lose themselves to eternity. Stolas is a selfish hedonist who cares the most about his own pleasures and even though he cares for Octavia it is very easy for him to lose himself in his own desires and pleasures as he mostly cares for himself the most and anything that is extension of him. Meanwhile Stella is a cold, distant and very duty focused character. Someone who while trains Octavia for the longest time does not involve herself too much with her own daughter, barely seeing her as one. Someone entirely focused on the prosperity of the family as a whole, someone who does not believe in value of individuality or personal joy and instead focuses on the good of everything else solely. This good being judged by her and her views that value subjugation and order compared to Stolas's love for chaos and selfish freedom.

In this case both sides are very broken. They both have to live through their own Hells made by their own choices that add to the fact they were born into the world of Hell. Neither one can really truly coexist with each other and both long ago abandoned any hope for true understanding. And in all of that the only real victim and good party you can find is Octavia. A person who suffers because of this clash of ideals and has to cope in her own way with suffering both she and her parents go through. All of them suffering.

That's at least how I write it. Something where you cannot pin to one side being terrible or evil. Just everyone being broken in a terrible world you have to fight with to make something better and both in a way... gave up. Until of course Moxxie comes along there for Stella and his presence helps her develop... but that's another thing.

I also have some quotes below from my fic to show my approach to both Stella and Stolas as characters. First one is Stolas and Octavia having a chat in the most recent chapter.

And here below is a scene between Stella and Moxxie where there is some discussion about theatre plays of Hell and difference between human and hellish ones delving into also her own view of the world (this IS a Stella/Moxxie crackship fic... just a big slowburn). From one of the earlier chapters.

Both I think probably show their own deep flaws and ways of coping with their own realities.

Now I don't say I want my ideas to be in the show, but more complex ones. Ones that are not just this... thing we've been fed for all of Season 2 and partially in Season 1 which could have been taken in a better direction, but it never was and just like one image here ruins another, here season 2 retroactively ruins the 1st one. Stella/Stolas/Octavia dynamic just has potential to be so much more than... whatever HB is now.

Well that was stupidly long and I can't imagine many people getting here, but hey. I wrote it and it's already too long to not post it. To whoever came this far I thank you and hope you will leave your opinion on this manifesto. Hope it was entertaining at least.

[osmanthus-wine-addiction]

so this is my first ever request, uhm, if your requests are closed, js ignore this! so id like to request a fanfic of zhongli (well obvi) with a pregnant fem reader whos about to give birth!!

Domestic Zhongli is always such a treat to write. Hopefully you enjoy this little fic!

Zhongli x Pregnant Reader

Ever since you first started seeing Zhongli, you were already aware that he was an attentive and devoted lover. The way he listens to you ramble about your day to day activities, an ever-present glimmer of adoration in his eyes, makes you feel like everything you say, feel, and think holds so much weight in his heart. He loves you so much, his beautiful, wonderful, and precious wife. And you, what did you ever do to deserve the sweetest man on Teyvat?

"Thank you, honey." You sigh as you take the cup of water from his outstretched hand. His other hand continued to rub your back as you rinsed your mouth over the toilet bowl.

Zhongli got down on his knee as you sat down on the couch, lifting your dress to reveal your round belly, swollen with his future daughter. He pressed a kiss to the bump, stroking it as he would your cheeks.

"She's almost here. I can hardly believe it." He says fondly, smiling up at you.

You nod, an excited smile on your lips despite the morning sickness the little brat just put you through. Some days, you truly felt like a pile of turd, but for the past eight months, your sweet husband had been your biggest blessing. He couldn't shield you from or help you shoulder the burdens of pregnancy like he could other things, but his constant presence gave you immense comfort.

Zhongli had never been a father before, despite his long life. He had never been a husband either, but you could not ask for anyone more dedicated. His vast knowledge on various subjects from medicine to cooking all seemed to come in handy as well.

One day, you found him in the kitchen making you a pot of, you could hardly believe it, fish head soup. Your husband loathed seafood  For as long as you had known him, he couldn't stand the stench or the slimy texture of it at all.

"Fish head soup is high in nutrients that both you and our little one needs. My discomfort is a small price to pay." He chuckles, but the constant furrow in his brow told you how unbearable the preparation had been for him.

You could only run up to him and smother his face in kisses.

"Now now... Tears are a bit much for a pot of soup, don't you think?" He cooed, palms cupping your face and wiping away the unexpected leakage.

"I can't help it. Everything makes me cry right now." You defended your emotional outburst. Fish soup never smelled so good before.

Aside from fish head soup and ginger pig feet stew, Liyue held many traditions and customs also when it comes to pregnancy. For one, he could no longer go into the funeral parlor for work since being around coffins was strictly forbidden. Hutao gave him permission to stay at home and take care of you. At first, you were ecstatic. That was, until you realized your husband saw it as his personal mission to prevent you from doing anything strenuous at all. He would not let you touch the stove, the dishes, or the broom.

"You're too strict." You pouted after Zhongli snatched the rag from your hand. He had caught you cleaning the toilet after you puked in it again.

"Dear, please go get some rest." He ignored your complaints. "You agreed to let me take care of you. We can go on a stroll later if you need some exercise."

"Fine!" You begrudgingly exited the bathroom.

Your husband did not take things lightly, especially not when it comes to things you agreed to.

The stroll was short since you couldn't handle walking for too long. The whole way, you could feel his steady hand at your back. Eventually, the two of you rested on a bench, watching the sun set.

"She's kicking me again!" You told Zhongli with a pout.

He leaned over your bump, slipping a hand underneath your dress to feel the warmth of your skin and the subtle movement underneath it. A faint smile spread over his lips. "Sweetheart, try not to torment your mother too much. She has had a long day."

"I can't wait for her to come out. She really has too much energy." You laughed. "She's going to be a handful. I just know it."

"She takes after you, my dear." Zhongli hums, his deep voice vibrating against your stomach.

You gawked at his accusation. "And you've never had an unruly phase?"

"Your mother is perfect the way she is, as are you. Unruliness and all." He chuckled.

As if in response to his words, the baby pushed against his hand. You met his eyes, excitement and surprise brimming in them. Zhongli's voice had a distinct magnetism to it. Imagine being confined in a dark and wet place and then hearing a deep, soothing voice like his. You'd try to get closer too.

"She likes you so much already." You said, covering Zhongli's hands with your own. "I have a feeling she's going to recognize you as soon as she comes out."

When you got home, your legs were cramping up again. Zhongli offered to give you a massage, which you happily accepted.

"Our daughter will surely be as beautiful as her mother." He muses, hands gently kneading their way down your thighs. Your tense muscles relax under his ministrations.

"I hope she has your eyes. They're the most striking thing about you." You add.

He chuckles. "Is that so?"

"Well, maybe something else of yours left a deeper impression..." You giggled as Zhongli drapes himself carefully over your body, planting a soft kiss against your forehead.

Zhongli's hands feather over your skin, dipping into your valleys and gliding over your hills. His fingers untie the straps that hold your nightgown togther. Your bump had gotten a lot larger over the months and each time he unclothes you, he can't help but stare in awe.

Inside of you was his daughter, steadily growing every single day. Zhongli's soft gaze swept up your swollen body, as vulnerable and alluring as the first time he made love to you, so incredibly beautiful and perfect in his eyes. He saw not just the present you lying underneath him, but all of you.

Every memory of you from the moment he met you blended together in his unwavering gaze. He imagined you in an apron, shouting across the kitchen at your daughter. After dinner, the three of you would take evening strolls together, hand in hand. He would read the both of you to sleep every night.

An amused smile spread over your lips as you pulled your dazed husband in for a kiss.

"Am I that captivating?"

"More than you will ever know, my dearest." He replied, nuzzling against your neck. "You ought to be used to this by now."

"Never. You can always love me more." You dared him.

Zhongli chuckled. "Indeed I can."

[imorynn]

── ᯓ between fleeting moments and significant interactions ᡣ𐭩

ᯓ pairing: alice wu-gulliver 〆 fem!reader

ᯓ genre : fluff, mentions of alice’s family trauma , emotional struggle and alice discovering her feelings for you, descriptions of internal conflicts, anxieties, self-doubt coming from alice , mild workplace tension

ᯓ word count : 3.7k

ᯓ author’s note : i’m between contemplating if i like the way this turned out and actually loving this very much — i adore alice so much — she deserved the world i freaking swear ohmygosh — those reading this piece and carrying that same strong love for our girl, alice, lol, i hope you enjoy this ! I look forward to writing for different characters within the coven <33

── IF ALICE WU-GULLIVER were to attempt recalling every interaction she had with you — a task she had long since lost track of after the first 25 — the most probable outcome would be likely to find herself flabbergasted. It was as though she'd never truly thought about how often paths crossed with others until you came into the hers. The majority of those encounters had been trivial, almost forgettable, their significance lost in the blur of everyday routine. But some of them, the ones that lingered just under the surface, held a weight she was not entirely ready to acknowledge. Those moments, though seemingly casual, seemed inevitable — after all, you shared the same workspace, the same environment. But even so, there was something more to them, something that stirred her in ways she couldn’t quite put into words. She told herself they were just a product of proximity, of the placement. Yet, deep down, Alice knew — if only subconsciously — that there was more to it. She was not ready to admit it, but she found herself looking forward to those fleeting exchanges, a little too often, and a little too much.

The first, perhaps, was the day when she had, much to her dismay and recommended to, submitted an application for a rather favored clothing store by this generation. That clothing store being none other than Hot Topic.

“You start next week. Mall opens at 10, so get here an hour early, sharp. You greet, and you make sure no one shoplifts. Don’t screw it up, got it? I’m gonna be checking in on ya, but the one who’s gonna be showing you a bit around should be here any minute. Don’t screw that up, either.” were the words the store’s manager ( and security guard who stood mere feet outside the store ) had curtly uttered to her the second the employee’s uniform came into her hold. ‘Don’t screw it up.’ A phrase she collided with too often, if she was sincere. Screwing up came with the misfortune of the curse that had become a part of her. And it seemed that misfortune had been set in motion the second you came entering those open doors, and the words, “Ah, there she is.” came tumbling out of his mouth.

A screw-up (— if not incidental such as pretty much all the ones that came with the consequences of the curse —) had come across her midway through her fast-paced walk — with the slight determination to get to the shop because she indeed needed this shop — before she had officially received her employee shirt. It had been a minor, unintentional act on her part, it being her bumping into you on her way past the escalator. Alice has had her fair share of people not liking her for the simplest of reasons, and she rather not have another person apart from them being a stranger not liking her — just to play it safe. She had inhaled sharply — involuntarily drawing in a fragrance enriched with something floral and sweet clinging to this person’s sweater — wanting to be proper with her apology towards the person her shoulder had just jabbed, and she could not help pausing midway as her head tilted up. That was the first time she had laid eyes on you; your wide eyes were, to put it frankly, very pretty and shockingly bright despite the furrow of your brows, and hair styled in a way that framed your features. She was a bit mesmerized, not sure if it was an under or overstatement, until you cleared your throat, cheek hoisting into what seemed a tiny — distasteful like all the other ones she’d received ?Odd? — smile, about to walk in the other direction. Though, now that she thought more about it, you were most definitely walking towards the similar destination — if only she acknowledged you more than she already had, yet that would have been a tad bit demeaning. So she averted her gaze, muttered a swift “sorry” as she passed, and that was that.

Or so it seemed about 10 minutes ago or so, and then right on came the second interaction.

She inhaled sharply at seeing you. She had recognized the sight instantly regardless of the fact that she had seen your face only for a split second. Warm colored eyes and soft contour of your cheeks glowing slightly beneath the store’s dim radiance as you walk deeper within the store, murmuring a polite greeting before your curious gaze lingered on her, followed by that little smile you had given her earlier. It was then that she had a name to put on you as the manager introduced you to one another, nodding every now and then and letting out a quiet ‘yes’, ‘okay’, and ‘got it’ to whatever he said. And when she departed from the building she was bound to come back to in a few days, she found herself unconsciously gripping the employee shirt in her hands which shook little enough for her to ignore it, and continued with her day. However, she could not avoid the unrelenting memory of you with those eyes and smile, unaware that, before long, the precise thought of you within her mind would become inevitable.

At nine am on a Monday, she arrived, shirt slackly tucked into her cargo trousers, the manager was juggling a handful of boxes, each one marked with the familiar logo of the store, without much more than a glance in her direction, head nodding toward the back, voice barely rising above the sound of cardboard shifting in his arms as he briskly informed her of the employee room in the back and something along the lines of you arriving momentarily. A few minutes later, she walked out of the staff room while inwardly stating she could have very least stayed in bed instead of taking a pointless job until a particularly semi-familiar presence with bright eyes came into view, and she found herself grumbling less about where she was — more so questioning how does a single person come to have eyes like that this early in the morning — as you walked over to her. A warm ‘good morning’ had left your lips, and all she could find herself offering you was a thin-lipped smile and curt nod (you had yet to understand how rare her smiles were, forced or otherwise), and you proceeded to assist and guide her through the workplace. Patience was something you easily possessed as you demonstrated essential tasks such as greeting those who entered, offering assistance if needed, being aware of the store’s layout, and answering questions she may have, which were not many, though you did not seem to mind that she didn’t.

“So,” you had given her a smile, similar to the first two ( or eighth that you've given her the past hour, she could not recall — ) though this one was warmer and lopsided, as you were across from her, both of you standing in front of the store’s window display. “Do you have any questions for me, Alice?”

Her lips subtly pursed at the way you said her name, and once again she found herself freezing except for her blinking. That was the first time she had heard you say it. She stayed quiet for a while, staring at you, at the way your smile became a bit wider until her eyes dragged to the side, clearing her throat with a shake of her head, a quiet “no, thank you,” leaving her.

She heard you hum, your steps slowly and quietly descending backwards. There was a bit of disquietude in her head that perhaps her action may have drawn you away from her, internally cursing at herself, her gaze then fixed on the ground while waiting for you to fully walk away.

“Okay then. I’ll be behind the register, in case you have anything to ask … or if you just want a bit of conversation, you know where to find me.” She looked up at you again, and she was taken aback to see your smile remained, the spark in your eye unwavering. And with a soft “good luck”, you turned and made your way behind the counter.

And so, that was when it all began, the few of many interactions to come. Over time, Alice learned that you were always patient and kind. Two adjectives were an understatement to the entirety of what, and who you were, yet they seem to fit you to perfection. Kind enough you were to always greet her with a warm ‘good morning’ and question ‘How are you?’ when she walked early into the store or you were the one to arrive only a handful of minutes after her. And you did not just do it in the sense of just making formal small talk – you engaged in conversation with her. Whether her response was small, at times remained the same, or she let herself truly speak for a moment, you actually listened, acknowledged her in more than what she believed herself to be, and responded. Kind and patient you were when it seemed her entire world felt like it was against her. Kind you were when something wrong occurred that she believed was her fault, like the other day when she had tackled some rebellious teenager for shoplifting, and the store’s supervisor was about to get onto her case until you jumped into her rescue. You always had something kind to say to and do for her.

Long boring hours of settling near the entrance and faintly greeting those who entered ( which most of the time went unanswered, but what did it matter when you’d glance briefly at her and give her one of those lopsided smiles she grew to like ), you found a way to make it entertaining for her. Interactions were both fleeting and lingering with you, but they were all significant nonetheless — warm, familiar, at ease for the reason that you did not push her into any more than what she gave, and for a moment she did think that would push you away from her, yet it didn’t. You had found a way to make her look forward to the next shift and every single one that came after that.

There were times when, while sitting at the front of the display window bright and early, it felt tedious for the very reason that you had not arrived. It had been ten minutes, and you normally arrived at the very least five minutes after she would. ( and if it was the other way around, she arrived three to four minutes after you ). How did her mind jump from finding itself waiting for you to arrive to wanting to leave the building if you did not? She was not certain, nor did she allow herself to think much more of it than what she already did. Two minutes passed and her dark-polished fingers drummed impatiently against the ‘Queen’ button pinned to the pocket of her joggers ( a pin that you had gifted her with when you briefly learned the band was one she favored. Alice convinced herself it was a simple gesture of friendship. She then learned that apparently, this was the longest form of friendship she had had in a while). Three minutes had her knee bouncing relentlessly, and when it nearly came to four it had her considering the idea of ruining her 3-month streak in keeping this job.

Just as she was about to get up and gather her items, you tumbled into the place, wisps of your hair rebelling against its standard styling, chest heaving, your attire rumbled, your beaming face being met with her hitched-up brow.

“The escalator to go up was broken, so I had to go up the one that goes down …” A soft giggle bubbled up your throat as you stood in front of her, and her heartbeat could not avoid the continuous jitters it created. “Very chaotic experience, you should try it someday, Ally.”

Alice was not accustomed to … whatever this was with you — if there was even anything to label with you besides a decent friendship. Her life had been built on discipline, on maintaining a steady grip over her emotions to keep both herself and those around her safe. The curse she carried and tried to keep away, an inherited darkness bound to her by blood, had obligated her to draw thick boundaries, separating herself from anything or anyone that might break her focus. She believed anything tied to dating, being with someone was a luxury she could not afford— too perilous, too unpredictable. That was before you.

The idea of liking you had lurked within her in quiet, unexpected moments, moments that threw her off balance. It had occurred though in this moment, striking her when you — in a disheveled state with that lively grin of yours ( not to mention, you took habit in calling her Ally, something she never let anyone really call her besides her mother. Yet it didn’t feel so bad when you called her that ) — softly laughed at her expression, truly laughing in a way that illuminated your entire face, the sound vivid with warmth, those vibrant irises piercing right through her defenses when they met her brown ones. She could feel the stir of something unfamiliar, something that frightened her more than any spell or demon she had ever faced. Her pulse quickened, her carefully crafted composure wavering. She found herself wanting to see you smile in that way again, to be the reason for it — and that terrified her.

At first, she resisted the feeling, brushing it off as a fleeting, irrational notion — just another trick of false hope her mind fabricated, she told herself. But now that she looked back at every interaction experienced, she found herself lingering in your presence a moment too long, her eyes randomly but purposefully fixated on you throughout the day. Such as when you worked behind the register when customers were doodling with that black pen you always used, strands of your hair brushing your forehead as you tilted down to focus on the little sketches upon the stacks of sticky notes you kept tucked into the counter’s small storage spaces. ( the times she stood behind the register, which was pretty rare, was when you had gone to help the manager with something and she was entrusted to be back there — she caught clear sight of what you did with those doodles; they practically decorated and brought the dark colors of the shelves to life. she may or may not have tucked one very endearing doodle into her pocket, one she recognized to be the pattern of the jewelry she wore being drawn upon an endearing cartoon character .)

During break times or the time you and she had gone down to the food court, she found herself tracing the gentle lines of your face, the warmth that radiated from your eyes, the politeness in the manner you spoke as you ordered both for you and her, already knowing her preference by heart. And every time, her chest would constrict, a subtle but unmistakable tension rising within her, unsettling in its unfamiliarity. Her stomach would twist, an agitating excitement she could barely recognize, let alone comprehend, creeping into her thoughts. She would force herself to look away, to stifle the sensation as if quelling a spark before it ignited into a flame she feared she would not be able to control. It was both maddening and intoxicating, a quiet chaos beneath her skin that she did not dare admit to herself.

Her reactions continued nearly involuntary. That protective nature she contained honed when around you, almost instinctual. If customer was disrespectful, or if someone tended to cross a boundary, a limit with you, she was there to check on you, to interfere with whatever issue that person was giving you. She would catch herself worrying over small things — if you had eaten enough, if you were conscious to your surroundings when you went to the food court or anywhere that was not near her, if you were sleeping well when she’d catch you dozing off, or when she’d go on break, she’d bring you back a water bottle just to make sure you’re hydrated. She would find reasons to ensure your well-being, offering her assistance in ways that were tenuous but frequent. She grew excessively aware of you, attuned to each movement, every gesture, every change in your tone. The times you would sneak away from the task you were supposed to be doing to sit with her and talk about everything or nothing at all, or when you would stand so close to her to the point where that sweet scent of yours lumbered and your shoulder brushed hers — the pressure increasing just so very slightly, or when your fingers grazed hers — even if the proximity was coincidental, it felt odd. Odd but comforting, and she found herself wanting to live in that feeling just a bit more before she would pull away. Her breath would catch before she forced herself to steady it. She could not remember the last time she had been so rattled, so affected by someone’s presence. And the more she tried to dismiss it, the more inevitable it became.

And then there were interactions that followed with the remnants of quiet weariness and sorrow Alice let herself feel when it came to her life, her mother. She came to reveal only pieces, admissions of herself to you, and of course, you being you, you remembered every bit of it and wove them together. This specific moment was given when it was near closing hour, shops emptying while employees got ready to start heading home, yet while fixing the place up a bit, a recognizable melody Alice wished to forget played filled the atmosphere. You noticed the shift in her demeanor, a partial reason for it, and when she sunk to the floor with her back against the wall, her pounding head clutched between her quivering palms, a silence suddenly replaced the song — your doing.

She still had not lifted her head as one of her hands fell over her knees, yet she felt it. She felt your presence descend beside her, that floral fragrance of yours wavering and blanketing her aching soul. That familiar pressure against her shoulder, and the light curl of your fingers around hers. An ease, a steadiness flowed through the familiarity of this contact, alleviated the silence.

“Rough day, no?” you murmured quietly. There was a hint of gentle mirth woven within your voice, she detected. It was light enough that it did not press though let her know you were there, ready to bring a bit of levity if she it was what she needed from you. It was then a light laugh rose from her, aerated, barely perceptible, but she was certain you heard it.

“Guess you could say that,” She watched as pads of your fingers took action in lightly tapping up against the back of her hand before going down, repeating the action once or a few more times, and it felt as if you had done it countless times before. It came natural when her own fingers unconsciously spread apart, just a bit, as your touch soothed up and slid between them. “it feels just a bit better now, though.” Because of you.

Your thumb then swept over the outer lining of her thumb in a quiet rhythm, allowing her the space to sit with her thoughts, to simply be as she was without needing to mask anything.

Closing hour was near within seconds, and she did not bother looking up at the manager as he threw a questioning look at you both but said nothing of it, simply pointing out for one of you to close up in a few minutes before he left you to sit there in silence . You set her at ease in moments similar to these. Perhaps part of the reason she liked you so much was that you made her feel comfortable with herself, if only momentarily.

“You … you don’t have to stay here with me, y’know. You can go, I’ll be fine.”

You hummed lowly at her words — words she always repeated and knew she didn’t mean for the reason being that she hoped you could stay with her just a moment longer — her skin searing beneath the touch given, whether it was done out of a friendly gesture, of possibly reciprocating what she tried avoiding, it did not matter. “I’m not going anywhere, Alice. We can just stay here until you’re ready to go, okay?”

Her lips parted, gaze focusing on the gentle movement of your hand. Allured with the way your complexion blended with hers beneath the golden glow the store provided. The way that this felt right — when was the last time something felt right in her life? Everything she came in contact with, she believed it all turned to shit. But the more she looked at your joined hands, the more she found herself feeling that maybe she could make an effort in turning it all around. And when she glanced up through her strands of scarlet and black, her vulnerable brown gaze met your intent one, she had her response, finally let herself acknowledge that pestering feeling.

She liked you. It was more than perceptible, of course. Another truth she tried pushing herself to avoid, yet it was one did not want to anymore. Not when this truth brought her contentment as much as it brought fear.

Under the wires of anxiety and the tangles of pessimistic thinking of this, of truly putting the effort in making this part of her life work, there was a piece within her that was positive this would all be okay. That all of this will perhaps work. She trusted you far more than she could ever imagine trusting another person besides herself — hell, not even herself. Not with the concept of the curse crawled within her mind and interfered with her every action.

Yet with every interaction with you — just you alone gave her reason to hope, even if it was false that could waste her energy in hoping for something more with you that may not happen. She wanted to clutch onto that twinge of hope you prospered, of light you carried, of founding motivation for every day you brought into her life.

[deepfriedrhys]

im going bonkers.

this scene in the beginning of episode 2 makes me AAHHGGGHA HAHAHH.

caitlyn is one of those characters many might end up misreading, someone swallowed entirely by guilt, loss and grief that it's all translated into anger. caitlyn had always wanted to help zaun and its people in season one, she was a giving and kind character. this was evident in scenes where she sold her gun and helped vi's injuries, hugged one of the characters in zaun that was affected majorly by shimmer, she was KIND and wanted CHANGE FOR THE BETTER. this in season two was flipped on its head, everything she tried to accomplish was shattered, and she lost those dear to her and suffers from intense amounts of stress and anger. her mother died at the hands of jinx, whenever she sees something go wrong; for her it always leads back to jinx. she blew her mother up, she killed enforcers and attacked piltover. all of these things lead to her being blown over that point of reason. she wanted retribution, peace, and to fight for the "good of everyone", but her ideals have been completely blinded through grief. she sees the oppressed now as the oppressors, the people who were hurt being the source of her own pain. as a woman with power, influence and privilege she turns the people of zaun into victims of her grief.

something that really hurt me throughout this episode was that Caitlyns mother, Cassandra Kiramman, was someone who also always saw for peace with zaun. she saw them as the people they are, the oppressed, and wanted genuine change. why else would she dedicate herself to ventilating their air? saving hundreds of zaunites from disease and death? this act from Cassandra did so much good for them, but Caitlyn overlooked it as she immediately saw it as a way to gain some sort of upper hand. Cassandra obviously isn't a great person, the council is full of aristocratic snobs who have no care for those "below them", but what she believed was that "The Undercity deserves to breathe." that's enough to make her different from the rest.

By poisoning the "enemy," she could find the one who devastated her. She did not see this as the horrible act it was and only saw it as "I can use this to get to Jinx." this change, from someone kindhearted and filled with starry dreams of change, desperate to make a difference to the oppressed and to take action against the chem barons; to someone weaponising her own mother's creation as a weapon of war. using her privilege to do the wrongs she was so fond of criticizing.

she is completely blinded, i will never agree with her actions as she progresses, but the caitlyn we all know and love is still there somewhere, I know it, and she will come to wraps with that as this next act unfolds. she will no doubt be manipulated by ambessa to do what she will believe is right, but soon she will be able to see through the blindfold ambessa has wrapped around her head and see the pain that is around her. how she is making the world suffer, because of her grief. The person she was is still within her. The only people she has surrounded herself with now are those who are confident that what she is being manipulated to do is the right choice. But she's thrown away her only good conscious, vi. I love her. She is so complicated and troubled, and she needs to see the light behind the clouds. I need her, too. To you, Caitlyn! and to the wreck, you'll do to my heart in this season.

[natelikestowrite2054]

The Infection. Wanda Maximoff. Chapter 1

Wanda's not here. We are all that remains.

Summary: After a mission overseas, you return to the compound and meet up with Peter Parker. But something unknown attacks the base, and you soon learn who's behind the carnage.

Warnings: Infected Wanda, uneasy atmosphere, violence, suspense.

Author's Note: I hope you all enjoy reading this first chapter. There will be more to come.

You huffed as you dried hair after taking a well-deserved hot shower. Today had been grueling and unforgiving. The muscles in your body ached badly from the slightest bit of movement, and your eyes could barely stay open. But this wasn't a first-time experience for you. It was one you had done numerous times with the Avengers. The scars down your back, chest, and arms each held a story worth telling.

It had been over a year now since joining their team. A day that you'd never likely forget about. But unlike a majority of them. You didn't wear a suit of armor, possess secret powers, or have superhuman strength. No, you were a normal person, but not without the means to defend yourself. Your old life had taught you many lessons, and that was what aided you the day it all changed.

You neatly folded the towel and hung it over the heated rack. Sighing, you picked up your phone and opened it to check if Wanda had seen your messages. Two messages you'd sent half an hour ago had still gone unseen. Now you were getting worried. You typed up another message to send to her.

Wanda, I'm starting to really worry about you. You only said a few words to me or anyone when we left Sokovia, and then you suddenly disappeared as soon as we got back. If you need space, I understand, but please communicate with me. I love you so much, and I'm here for you. ❤️

Your mind pondered on the circus of theories as to what could've made Wanda so distant that she'd dissappear from everyone.

Did going back to Sokovia reawaken her painful memories? Should you have said more to comfort her? Was she planning on breaking up with you?

You snapped out of those delusional thoughts and exited the bathroom, switching off the lights and carrying your uniform over your forearm. The smell of fabric triggered deep memories of nostalgia from days long gone. You gently placed the outfit on the bed and searched for clothes for the evening.

Ding!

Your heart skipped a beat hearing the notification. You nearly stumbled forward, trying to get your leg through your sweatpants, hoping that Wanda had finally answered your messages. You scooped up your phone and opened to see it was a text message from Peter Parker.

Hey, I'm swinging in now. Meet you at the entrance?

Oh shit. You mumbled, realizing you had forgotten about your plans to hang out with Peter. You had been so overwhelmed with the stress of Wanda that you'd completely forgotten about tonight. It was something you'd planned out for some time, and you had been looking forward to it.

Peter wasn't a part of the Avengers, and that made it almost impossible for you two to see one another. You first met Peter when Tony Stark recruited him to help with a mission. Peter preferred to work alone and stick to being a friendly neighborhood Spider-Man. But the day you two met, there was an instant connection.

You ruffled your hair, trying to ease the sudden anxiety of forgetting the hangout. Reluctantly, you texted Peter back.

Sure, I'll meet you by the entrance.

A few seconds later Peter replied.

See you soon.

You pocketed your phone and fixed your hair after messing it up out of frustration. I suppose tonight wouldn't be so bad. After all, you were in need of a break after the eventful day. You walked out of the room into the hallway toward the elevator. Your fingers pressed the top button, and the doors grumbled open. You stepped inside and waited for the lift to arrive at the bottom.

Once you had arrived, you eagerly squeezed through the still-opening elevator doors. The anxiety and excitement of seeing Peter clashed inside you like swords on a battlefield. Your eyes caught him just walking in through the front entrance. He seemed to be struggling to stuff his mask into his jacket.

"Are you struggling a little bit there, Parker?" You snickered. "No, it just won't. Ah, I got it," Peter said. He turned to look at you only to be greeted with a tight embrace. Peter hugged you back, and you winced. "Oh, are you okay?" Peter gasped. "Yeah, I'm just sore from today. I'll talk about it later. But it's great to see you again, Peter. How have you-" An unwelcomed smell entered your nostrils, and you immediately asked, "Okay, why do you smell like pizza?"

Peter clearly embarrassed and turning red answered sheepishly, "Because I've been delivering pizzas."

"Wait, you're delivering pizzas now?" You asked almost a bit taken aback. "When did this start?" "Oh, I started a few months back," Peter told. A thought came to your mind and it made you snort. "Please tell me you've been swinging around in your costume when delivering them, oh please," you prayed. Peter smiled to hide his embarrassment as he admitted to it. You laughed, imagining how confusing it must look for New Yorkers seeing Spider-Man deliver pizzas. "Oh, my gosh, that's brilliant. I can imagine J. Jonah Jamerson is printing a front page for that one. Speaking of that, what happened to taking pictures of yourself for that knucklehead?" You asked, nudging Peter's side.

"I-I've still been doing that. The pizza delivery job is just some extra work." Peter explained. "How come?" You asked. "Well, it's just I've been a little bit behind on rent." Peter told.

"Do you need money?" You asked. "No, no, please, I can't take any of your money. I'll figure something out." Peter assured.

"Peter, if you need help, we -" Peter immediately dismissed your offer again. "No, it's fine, really. I have it under control." You breathed out through your nose to keep your sigh of frustration hidden. "Okay, but please, if you change your mind. We are all here for you."

"I appreciate it, Y/N, thanks." Peter thanked with a cute smile.

You pressed the button for the elevator doors to open. "Tonight, we're just going to relax and enjoy ourselves," you said. "Are you up for a movie and some board games?" "Sounds great, let's do it." Peter agreed. As you both entered the elevator, you pressed for the top floor.

"Is everyone here tonight?" Peter asked. You scratched an itch on your nose before answering, "Yeah, everyone's here. We recently got back from a mission in Sokovia." "Sokovia?" Peter repeated with a peak of interest dripping from his quirky voice. "Yeah, Wanda informed us of another Hydra base there," you explained. "Did you find out what they were doing there?" Peter inquired. "Not yet. We're still reviewing the data we saved before it was all wiped clean. But from what I could gather is that Hydra was running some kind of experiments."

"Experiments?" "What kind?" Peter asked. "Some kind of human testing. We were concerned about there being new super humans. But again, we won't fully know as half the data was destroyed when we began our assault."

"Mhm, so everything else is okay?" Peter asked. "Yeah, everything's... f-fine." You answered, not trying your best to hide the stress and worry for Wanda that was eating you like a cancer.

"Hey, you okay?" You glanced back up at Peter and stuttered with your explanation. "Y-Yeah, I'm fine just tired."

"Are you sure?" Peter asked again.

"Yeah, I'm sure," you whispered with a half convincing smile.

The mini screen in the corner of the elevator caught your attention. For some bizarre reason, the floor numbers seem to have frozen in time. But that's when you noticed the shift in Peter's expression. His eyes were wide like a deer caught in the headlights.

"Peter?" "Peter what's wrong?" You asked. Those few seconds felt like a lifetime time before Peter answered, "Y/N, something's wrong, something's -"

The elevator suddenly stopped.

You both froze in place, feeling the rumble of the elevator throughout your bodies. The lights from above flickered on and off until darkness followed. "What happened to the power?!" You exclaimed whilst frantically pushing the buttons on the panel. Nothing worked. Peter stepped toward the doors, prying his fingers in-between them. The young hero grunted with effort as he separated the doors. It sounded like nails on a chalkboard. Peter stepped out first, keeping his arm out in front of you in a protective manner. His eyes scanned the darkened hallway for any sudden movements.

"W-What's going on?" You muttered.

"Y/N, listen to me. There's something very dangerous nearby. Whatever it is, we need t-"

The thundering sound of clanging echoed through the floors above. You looked up toward the ceiling, listening to the deafening noises. But what came next was unlike anything you'd heard before. A loud screeching roar beyond human capability, and it made every hair on your body stand up. You started to hyperventilate, feeling the vibration of it throughout your body. "W-What was..." You choked out through your panicked breaths.

"Come on!" Peter exclaimed as he shoved the staircase door open. You raced after Peter with the adrenaline, igniting and fueling your body like a soldier charging onto the battlefield. As you climbed the stairs, the sound of gunfire and yelling was growing louder with every step. "Come on, Y/N!" Peter yelled from above. "We're almost at the top!" You leaped up the last set of stairs when you heard the screeching of Peter's shoes. You halted thinking Peter had come face to face with what was responsible. But as you looked up, there was nothing but what remained of the stairway door.

You slowly stepped up onto the walkway and inspected the scene of the crime. The door had been torn apart from the center and pulled inward. But what caught your eye made your heart skip a beat. Carved deep into the metal of the door appeared to be the workings of something with sharp claws.

"What could've done this?" You whispered.

Peter unzipped his grey jacket and swiftly took it off, revealing his tightly red and blue fitted costume. You turned away to look back at the door and bravely decided to investigate further. "Y/N, wait." Peter warned. You ignored it and squeezed through the gap in the door. Once you were through, your eyes gazed upon more of the same claw marks on the wall. Following the trail lead, you down the blackened hallway where the doors leading to the living room had been ripped clean off.

"Peter." You quietly called. Peter emerged through the gap and saw the carnage before him. "Oh my God." Peter gasped with wide eyes. "Okay, Y/N, I need you to listen to me. You need to get out of here and call Nick Fury. I'll go and investigate." Shaking your head, you argued, "No, I'm not leaving you here." Peter stepped closer and put both his hands on your biceps with a firm grip. "Y/N, please just listen to me. Whatever did this is dangerous. I sensed it before the power was cut. I can't let you get hurt." Again, you shook your head, ignoring Peter's reason. "I can't let you face this alone, I won't run knowing I could've done something." "Y/N it's too dangerous, and you don't have anything to protect yourself with," Peter pointed out.

"I'm staying." You repeated arrogantly.

Peter stared into your eyes. His expression was mixed between frustration, anger, and worry, knowing he couldn't change your mind. Peter pulled down his mask and repeated, "Okay, but promise me that the moment something happens to me. You save yourself. Promise me."

"I promise Peter." You answered confidently.

Peter nodded, and you both started to move cautiously toward the living room. He kept his arm out in front of in a protective manner. Anxiety made your hands clamy, and your heart thumped loudly in your ears as you entered the room.

Your eyes scanned the darkened area. There was no sign of anybody. Glass was scattered all over the floor, the couches and TV were tipped over, pieces of Tony's equipment broken and discarded like trash. Even one of the large windows had been shattered. It was like a battlefield. You continued following behind Peter with sweat dripping down your face like raindrops. When you felt something underneath your foot. You lifted your shoe off the object only to see it was a gun.

Natasha's gun.

You scooped up the pistol and checked it only to find the weapon had been completely emptied. Whatever Natasha was trying to bring down didn't surcome easily to bullet wounds.

Peter's eyes surveyed the area in front of him when he suddenly felt his spidey sense trigger drowning out his footsteps that came to a hault. You felt Peter's hand grab your shirt in a bone crushing grip. He whispered in a low tone, "Y/N, don't move." You froze like a statue, not daring to move another muscle.

Peter's breathing was shallow. His sharp spidey sense ringed loudly. Peter desperately searched for the threat, but there was nothing but the darkness that swallowed you both like a nightmare. The young hero needed to concentrate on where the threat was and quickly. Peter took a deep breath in and let it out. All went quiet. Peter's spidey sense homed in on the danger, and he moved his two fingers to the center of his web shooter before whispering the bone-chilling word.

"Run."

Peter shoved you out of the way. Emerging from the darkness were a pair of long tendrils that grabbed ahold of Peter's wrists and ankles like an octopus seizing its prey from within its lair.

You landed hard on the ground, crazing your cheek on the broken glass. Turning your head, you saw Peter pinned against the wall by the long, dark tendrils. Suddenly, one of the tendrils perked up and lunged toward you. Just as it was about to snatch your ankle, it was yanked back by one of Peter's webs. "Run, Y/N, RUN!" Peter groaned out.

You quickly stood to your feet and sprinted out of the room toward the stairway door. The sound of Peter's yellling traveled through the walls and followed you like a haunting spirit of mockery. The thought of what that monster was doing to Peter was too much bear, but you couldn't stop. You had to escape whilst Peter held it off.

The last flight of stairs was just below you now. You wasted no time and leaped down them, landing on your two feet. Grunting, you pushed the door open and sprinted toward the exit. You could make out the sight of the far-off street lights through the glass windows above the front door. Freedom was just ahead you could almost taste it.

Suddenly, you stopped hearing a loud rumble from above. The ground shook like an earthqauke was unfolding. Your eyes followed the sourace above when the ceiling collapsed, forcing you to retreat. You helplessly watched as Peter fell through the rubble. He reached out to fire a web to save himself, but it was too late. Peter crashed onto the title surface, cracking it. His body went limp as he laid trapped underneath a pile of rubble.

"Peter!" You cried.

You ran to Peter's side. But stopped upon seeing a dark shadow land in front of you and to your horror you saw it was...

Wanda.

No, it couldn't be. But it was indeed her. The right half of her body was consumed by a black and red substance that stretched all across the right side of her body like torn clothing. But the most disturbing feature was the right side, her mouth littered with rows of sharp fang like teeth.

You turned to flee. But Wanda was too fast. She raised up her right arm, and the black and red goo stretched across her hand like multiple streams transforming into a long tendril. It attacked with incredible speed and wrapped tightly around your throat. You kicked and squirmed as the oxygen supply to your lungs was cut off.

Wanda slowly turned you to face her and pulled you uncomfortably close to her face. Her wide pupils stared deeply into yours like a vengeful demon. "W-Wanda." You choked out in a pleading tone. The cold, slimey tendril tightened like an anaconda. All you heard leaving Wanda's lips was a chuckle that echoed through your ears.

As your world began to turn dark, you continued to thrash desperately, trying to break free, but you slowly felt yourself scumming to the sleep.

"Sweet dreams, little lamb."