#some people get faces right the first time but that is NOT me

[dante-mightdie]

long awaited part three of lowselfesteem!reader and simon

part two

invisible clothes

that’s what you called them, the rags you don when you have to integrate with the general population but you would much rather not be noticed. clothing that is so bland that it isn’t nice enough catch an eye but not hideous enough to catch any negative attention

you had told simon about them once, when he called you out on wearing them every time you stepped out in public, including your dates with him. especially since he knew you had a very elaborate wardrobe with a tailored sense of style

clearly they aren’t invisible enough to hide you from johnny’s guilty eyes from across the store aisle. you sigh when he comes up to you, tapping your shoulder to get your attention. he shifts uncomfortably on his feet

“I know ye probably hate ma guts, lass but ye should ken that simon shut down all of that bet talk after your first date. Ah just bring et up to annoy ‘im.” johnny says, with a nervous chuckles at the end. you don’t laugh alongside him

“okay, fair enough. look, he’s miserable without ye! he comes to the pub just to get pished and mope about how he fucked it all up with ye.” johnny continues, a pleading look in his eyes, “he’s supposed to he coming by to drop off some things of yours tomorrow. just hear him out, please, lass.”

you roll your eyes at him, continuing to grab what you need from the shelves in front of you. not even bothering to look him in the eyes when you finally begin to speak

"why should I? why am I always expected to think of other people even when they hurt me? you and simon didn't think about me or my feelings when you made your stupid bet. neither of you stopped to consider that I was just a person who simply wanted to be left alone." you say with a scoff, "he'll be lucky if I don't slam the door in his face."

johnny shifts on his feet, looking down at the floor since he feels too uncomfortable to look directly at you, "fair enough. take care've yerself, hen."

you bite back tears as you watch him skulk off in the corner of your eye. you stand there for a few more minutes, staring at the stacked shelves in front of you to distract you from the war raging inside of your head

-

it's late at night, nearly midnight, when there's a knock at your door. you let out a sigh, already knowing who was disturbing your doomscrolling at this hour. and when you open the door, you see him. you’re brooding prick of an ex-boyfriend. he at least has the decency to look guilty, like a dog caught ripping up the couch cushions

except he wasn’t a dog, he was the love of your life. and your heart isn’t so easily replaced like a cushion. though he definitely treated it like somewhere to rest his head

“hey.”

you scoff, you’re not sure why. there isn’t anything inherently wrong with what he said but it still annoyed you. he annoyed you. with his stupid stormy eyes and his stupid jokes and freckled shoulders that you used to connect like dots late at night

“just give me my stuff and go, simon. don’t have time for this bullshit.”

he doesn’t flinch. he saw that hit coming, and sometimes you gotta let them swing at you especially when you know that you deserve much worse

the exchange is quick, a box with small memories passed over to you. a couple items of clothing, a book and some toiletries. before you can slam the door in his face, he jams his heavy boot into it

“wait… love, I… there’s somethin’ else. I never gave it to you but it’s yours. got it for you and I’ll never give it to anyone else.”

the glare you give him only falters when he places a small velvet box in your hand, he pauses the speech you can definitely feel coming on. looking at you expectantly to open it. you do, waiting for him to laugh at you when you find nothing in there. ridicule you for even thinking he would consider making you his wife

but all he does it look on solemn, the beautiful ring twinkling as a devastating reminder of what could have been

“I kno’ I ‘ave no right to ask. I wouldn’t insult you like tha’ lovie. you can hate me, I deserve it. but you don’t deserve it. I won’t let you hurt yourself over what I did. you deserve to know the real extent of how bad I fucked up. maybe it’ll help to look at tha’ ring and know that I’ll spend the rest of my life having to know I lost the woman who should be my wife.”

there’s no chance to respond, not like you’d know what to say anyway,

“I’m sorry.”

and then he’s gone.

[cowgiri]

𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒 | how they send their late night nudes when they’re horning and missing your pussy <33

𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓 | mastrubation, twt links

𝐅𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 | sylus, zayne, caleb

𝐒𝐘𝐋𝐔𝐒’ nudes never fail to have you weak to your knees and dripping at the core. they always look so perfect and always have you rushing over to his apartment when you get the chance. he sends all kinds of nudes weekly without you even asking; in the car, on the bed, in the mirror. but oh god your favorite ones are the shower ones. especially when they’re videos. those always make your cunt flutter with butterflies. the audio is filled with rushing water in the background as he groans while petting his cock. his length is flush red and veiny dripping water. his wet silver strands sticks to his skin as a look of pleasure contours his face. you can feel yourself growing soaked as you swipe through the series of photos and videos. your favorite part is when he lets out a loud groan as his warm cum drips down his cock, the video being captioned ‘wish you were here so i can cum on your pretty face’. bonus points for when he compares his cock to his bottle of conditioner to show you how long and thick he is!

𝐙𝐀𝐘𝐍𝐄 isn’t really a sender but when he does send, he keeps it very simple. he won’t send nudes often unless you ask or you send something first. on often occasions when he’s gone for long periods of time for work, he’ll find himself missing you. he remembers you talking unprovoked about how people have phone sex and the concept bewildered him. but now he understood why after being away for so long. to show how much he misses you, he sends you a video. he’s usually laid back in his bed with his pretty cock in his hand. there’s beading of cum dripping down his blushing tip. a throbbing sensation fills your core as the video of him fucking into his fist lights up your screen. his moans are breathy and shaky as he chases a high. “like this? am i doing it right? fuck, can you see how much i miss your pussy? gonna eat her and fuck her so hard when i get back,” he grunts as chases he pumps himself faster. he’s almost always loud and vocal with his lewd moans and grunts. your face grows hot at his lewd words. something tightens in your core seeing a man everyone sees as reserved making a absolute mess of himself on your phone screen. bonus points if he does it in front of a mirror so you can see his facial expressions at the same time!

𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐁 is so obsessed with you that he cannot go a single day without fucking his fist when he’s away from you, even if he’s gone for just a couple hours at work. and he’ll make sure you know by sending you nudes and videos. he never really expects anything back, he wants you to know that you consume his very being. when he does send something, there’s always some artifact of yours involved. like last time, he sent a picture of his cum splattered across a picture of you. this time he sent a video of him jerking off to your panties that went missing the week before. your panties rest o his heavy cock before he starts slowly pumping it against his length. his tip is flushed an angry red and the veins along his length are pulsing from how long he has been teasing himself. “fuck, look what you’re doing to me,” he breathily moans as his cock becomes more flushed. he twitches and lets out a husky groan as he coats your panties in his hot sticky cum. bonus points if he makes you wear the panties when he gets off his shift!

𝐀𝐔𝐓���𝐎𝐑𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄: this is a new acc so i am take requests for short stuff like drabbles or headcannons! feel free to become an anon if you enjoy my work <33

[pathologicalreid]

all the debts i owe | s.r.

in which Spencer takes your kids into account when deciding whether or not he should take a plea deal, and it doesn't go the way you expect

who? spencer reid x fem!reader category: angst content warnings: prison reid, takes place during 12x14 "collision course", i love my little reid family so much word count: 1.29k a/n: caamp song fic caamp song fic caamp song fic everyone cheered!!!!

Somehow, you felt like you were invading a conversation that you shouldn’t be a part of. Emily and Spencer knew this world much better than you did, and you were nothing more than a fly on the wall, grateful to be in close proximity to your husband after a few days of him being in jail.

You’d stopped by yesterday, dropping off a bag of his belongings and leaving them with Emily. You had wanted to see him then, if for nothing more than a confirmation that he was still breathing, but he was finally getting some sleep. The comfort of knowing that he had Emily watching over him had to be enough.

Spencer wasn’t allowed to keep his wedding band on. It was something that the jail was going to hold on to, but Emily had intervened and arranged for you to keep it.

The gold band weighed heavy against your chest, suspended by a chain around your neck for safe keeping, you kept it tucked into the collar of your sweater while you watched Spencer and Emily talk. “Please, just think about it,” Emily pleaded with him. “Think about the evidence.”

“I know,” Spencer assured her. “Scratch dots his Is and crosses his Ts. We know that,” he responded, brown eyes flickering over to yours for just a moment.

Leaning heavily against the wall for support, Emily shook her head, “But a jury won’t. A jury will only see what Scratch wants them to see.”

You shifted on your chair, resting your elbows on the table and propping your head in your hands. “You think they’ll convict me?” Spencer asked, a string of hurt threaded through his voice as if the thought of a jury of his peers thinking he was a killer caused him physical pain.

“I don’t know,” Emily answered, her voice barely above a whisper, “But if they do. Five years—that’s doable. You are young. You can have a life after that.” You were grateful for Emily; it seemed like she was doing the begging that you didn’t have the energy for.

“Not as an FBI agent,” Spencer rebutted, “I’d be a convicted felon.”

Her face softened as you watched, “Yes,” she acquiesced, “but you’d be free.”

At the first sign of tears in Spencer’s eyes, you felt water lining your own, “The FBI is my home. It’s where I belong.”

Emily looked at you for help, but you couldn’t get yourself to speak. You understood Spencer in a way few people ever could, the idea of him not being a part of the BAU made your chest ache as much as it did his. “You don’t belong in prison, and if you play Russian roulette with this… twenty-five years. That is a lifetime.”

Your husband lifts his chin in a display of false confidence, “If Scratch is framing me, you guys will get him. I know you will.”

“Yes, we will. I promise you we will never give up, and we will exonerate you.” Familiar silver started to line Emily’s eyes as well, “But what if we can’t do that this week? Or this year? Or this… decade? Because I know we can’t do it before your arraignment.”

Spencer turned to look at you, fully facing you for the first time since you arrived at the conference room this morning. “Thirty, twenty-seven, and twenty-five.”

Emily shook her head, confused. “What? What is that?” Her dark brows were knit together, looking between the two of you as she waited for an explanation.

You faced the two of them, wiping your sweaty palms across your jeans, “That’s how old our kids would be when he gets released.”

“They won’t even know who I am,” he said miserably, looking up at the ceiling to stop tears from gathering in his eyes.

Standing up from the chair, you stepped over to him, taking your rightful place at his side. “You could take the new deal, Spence,” you reminded him. “Five to ten—”

“I need to see them grow up,” he pleaded, brown eyes boring into you as he begged you to understand. Spencer always accounted for every possible outcome. Despite the haze of the past few days, you were sure that he knew what he was getting himself into.

You nodded up at him, taking one of his hands in yours before glancing over at Emily, “Can you give us a minute?”

Prentiss sighed and gave the both of you an understanding look before she slipped out of the room. “I need to see them grow up,” he repeated himself, dragging his free hand down his face while you squeezed his hand comfortingly.

“I know,” you whispered, “but with the deal… five years.”

“Or ten,” he countered. “Ten years… Nell would be in high school.”

Your stomach flipped at the idea, your oldest baby in high school, and just like that, you understood Spencer’s decision. You’d be there, outside in the world with your kids for those five to ten years; you’d see all of the in-between. Spencer would miss everything, learning about his own children through phone calls and letters, he’d play a passive role in their lives. If there was even the slightest chance that he would plead not guilty and win, then this whole nightmare would be over. “You have to fight,” you said, announcing the conclusion that he had already come to.

He nodded in confirmation, “Angel,” he whispered, “I don’t want you to come to the arraignment.”

Your breathing hitched, “What?”

“I want you to be with the kids. You’re the only parent they’ll have for who knows how long,” he explained himself.

You hadn’t worked out what you were going to tell the kids. They were too young to understand. Finn was barely out of the newborn phase, Livvy’s vocabulary was expanding every day, and Nell… Spencer was Nell’s best friend. Steeling your expression, you nodded once, “Okay, I won’t go.”

His lips parted and closed like he wanted to say something but stopped himself, you squeezed his hand in an attempt to be encouraging. “Just in case things don’t go the way we want… don’t wait for me.”

You dropped his hand, shaking your head in horror. You couldn’t believe what you were hearing from him, without a second thought, you reached into your shirt and pulled his wedding band out, leaving it on the chain, “For better or for worse, Spencer.”

“This is far worse than anything we could have ever thought of,” he continued, trying to give you an out. You could leave and he wouldn’t fault you, but you’d fault yourself.

Instead, you waved away his offer, “It would be an honor to wait for you. If that’s what it takes for me to see you again.”

He kissed you. Ducking his head until his lips met yours, there was nothing chaste about it. You both knew it was the last kiss, and it had to be good enough to last a lifetime. It was like nothing you’d ever experienced before, fueled purely by emotion; you kissed him like you’d never see him again. You gripped the collar of his sweater to discourage him from pulling away, and you tried to memorize the feeling of his hands on your waist.

A hollow feeling filled your chest when he pulled away, “I love you,” you breathed.

He nodded, resting his forehead against yours, “I love you too.” He pressed another small kiss to your lips, “I’ll make this up to you.”

You let yourself be pulled into his embrace, burying your face in his chest. You held onto him because this moment couldn’t last forever, but you’d be damned if you weren’t going to drag it out.

[wonderjanga]

Yous an Old Bitch

It was about normal day, and Marvel was being interviewed. It was a fairly normal interview. The reporter was asking normal questions and the topic of his age came up. Somehow, after more talking, he for some reason dropped this line:

Marvel: “Listen, if something has a lightning bolt like mine, I probably either made it, or someone inspired it off of me.”

This single line led to a manhunt, looking for items with the bolt. Museums have never been richer.

Person 1: “Did you make this?” *shoves their phone into his face*

Marvel: *pushes the phone away so he can get a better look* “No, it was made for me.” *staring at the photo of an unfinished statue*

Person 1: *enraptured* “Please explain.”

Marvel: “Well, it was a really hot day, and the sculptor guy was taking forever. So like halfway through, I flew out the window and just decided to avoid the sculptor guy. The guy died before he could finish my thing. That’s why the statue isn’t done!”

Someone videoed this and after seeing this, many more people worked up the courage to ask him about their finds.

Person 2: “Captain Marvel, did you make this?” *shows him a photo of a really beat up piece of metal that had a tiny lightning bolt*

Marvel: “Yes actually! That was my first actually good piece of metal work.”

Person 2: “You can do metalwork?”

Marvel: “Yup!”

Person 2: “What was it originally?”

Marvel: *nostalgic* “It was kinda like a tiara only this was before tiaras were things.”

Person 2: “Was it pretty?”

Marvel: “Of course!” *sounds proud* “In fact, it was so pretty that if it were up to me, I’d march right into that museum and restore it with some magic! Though I don’t think the museum would let me.”

Person 2: “Wait, who was it for?”

Marvel: “My wife!”

Person 2: “Huh?”

News that he had a wife spread like wildfire.

or

Person 3: “Did you make the newly discovered cave paintings in China?”

Marvel: “What cave paintings?”

Person 3: *shows him a photo*

Marvel: “Oh. Yeah! Me and a buddy were messing around there. See those symbols?” *points to some symbols*

Person 3: *nods head*

Marvel: “See, that was our language from back then and it basically says that the chief of our tribe sucked. In short, teenage caveman vandalism, only we weren’t teenagers.” *looks nostalgic* “Man, those were good times… I mean, sure, we got stoned to death for that, but still!”

Person 3: *horrified and intrigued*

Also FUCK ME because I had to rewrite this THREE FUCKING TIMES because it DIDNT SAVE. WHATEVER IS UP THERE DOESNT WANT ME TO GO BACK TO MY NORMAL POSTING SCHEDULE. THIS SHIT SHOULDVE BEEN OUT TWO HOURS AGO.

[goldfades]

past relationships, exes and flings | chapter two, DAYLIGHT

free palestine carrd 🇵🇸 decolonize palestine site 🇵🇸 how you can help palestine | FREE PALESTINE!

MASTERLIST

⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 1.9k

⟢ ┈ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | after running into your ex, you and kylie have some reflection time. joe realizes that his hook-ups aren't fulfilling, but ja'marr reminds him of who he really is underneath all the hurt.

⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | kinda angsty, mentions of past relationships, tay/reader bonding!! again, this is such a sloooow burn series so be ready

You weren’t sure who the Chiefs were playing.

Not that you hadn’t been trying to pay attention—you had, really—but somewhere between the first and second quarter, you realized you had absolutely no idea which team was on the other side of the field. It didn’t help that Taylor was curled into your side, an arm draped around your shoulders, squeezing you gently every time Travis did something remotely worth cheering for.

"You having fun?" she asked, her voice just loud enough to cut through the roar of the stadium.

You nodded, because it was easier than explaining that football games had never really been fun for you. They were just… familiar. A backdrop to your childhood, a constant in your life. You had been sitting in the stands for as long as you could remember, watching your brothers carve their way through the sport, watching them win, watching them lose. It wasn’t new. None of it was new.

But for Taylor, it was.

So you leaned into her warmth, let yourself cheer when she did, pretended like the weight in your chest wasn’t getting heavier and heavier with every passing minute.

It was easier that way.

After the game, you went out to eat.

Somewhere lowkey—well, as lowkey as you could get when you were with Taylor Swift���where the lights were dim and the noise was loud enough to drown out any lingering thoughts about the game.

You were finally starting to settle, finally letting yourself enjoy the post-game buzz, when you saw him.

Jayson.

The second you saw him, everything else in the restaurant faded.

The warm lighting, the distant clatter of plates, the low hum of conversation—it all became white noise, swallowed by the rush of blood in your ears. Jayson Tatum was here. Here. A few tables away, sitting with a group of people you didn’t recognize, laughing like he hadn’t once shattered you so thoroughly you weren’t sure you’d ever feel whole again.

Your stomach dropped, a sick twist knotting its way through your chest, because suddenly it was December again. Suddenly, you were back in the middle of that breakup, the most public, most humiliating moment of your life. You were reading the headlines, seeing your name next to his in bold, ugly letters, dissecting every photo, every quote, every little piece of your pain that had been turned into entertainment for the world to consume.

Travis stiffened beside you. He saw him too.

And if there was one thing about your big brother, it was that he had never been the type to think twice before throwing a punch when it came to protecting you.

“Let’s go,” he said, already pushing his chair back.

You barely had time to register his words before Taylor was tugging at your hand, her fingers warm and grounding against your wrist. “Come on, babe.”

You should’ve argued. Should’ve said something about how you weren’t going to let him ruin your night, that you didn’t care, that he didn’t affect you anymore. But you knew that would be a lie. You weren’t sure if you could even breathe properly right now, let alone sit here and pretend like seeing him didn’t send you spiraling back to the lowest point in your life.

So you left.

You weren’t even fully out the door before Travis was muttering, “Motherfucker. Just seeing his face makes me wanna—”

“Don’t,” you cut in, voice shakier than you wanted it to be. “Just—don’t, Trav.”

His jaw clenched, but he nodded, running a hand through his hair as he let out a sharp exhale. He was still wired, still pissed, but he wouldn’t push it. Not if you asked him not to.

Taylor, though, was quiet. Too quiet.

And when you turned to her, she was watching you with something so heavy in her eyes, something so full of understanding and sadness and anger that it nearly knocked the breath out of you.

She knew.

She’d known before—she knew the headlines, the surface-level details, the way the media had painted you in the aftermath—but now? Now, she really knew.

And suddenly, for the first time since it all happened, you wanted to talk about it.

The words came before you could stop them. “It wasn’t just the breakup.”

Travis and Taylor both looked at you, startled by the sudden admission.

You swallowed, throat tight. “It was—God, it was everything. He was in my life for so long, I—I thought it would always be that way. We had this stupid back-and-forth thing, and I let him—I let him treat me like I was disposable, like I was something he could just come back to whenever he wanted.” Your voice wavered, thick with something you didn’t want to name. “And then when it finally ended—really ended—it was so public. I couldn’t escape it. I’d open my phone and it was everywhere, people picking sides, making jokes, acting like—like it wasn’t my life that just fell apart.”

Taylor squeezed your hand, her grip firm. “I hate him.”

That pulled a watery laugh out of you, and you shook your head. “I think I do too.”

Travis was still tense, his hands flexing like he was trying to physically restrain himself from going back inside and doing something that would definitely end up all over the news. “I should’ve hit him when I had the chance.”

“I think you did have the chance,” you pointed out. “A couple times.”

“I should’ve hit him more.”

Taylor sighed, but there was amusement in it. “Okay, violence aside, let’s go home, yeah?”

You nodded.

And as the three of you walked toward the car, the weight on your chest didn’t feel quite as heavy anymore.

Kylie had a way of making things seem simpler. Not easy, but manageable. Like no matter how deep the hole you’d fallen into, she could always build you a ladder out of sheer willpower and stubbornness alone.

And right now, as you sat on the couch in her living room, surrounded by the chaos of her kids running in and out of the room, she was trying to do just that.

“I’m just saying,” she said, adjusting Bennett on her hip as she reached for her coffee, “heartbreak isn’t the end of the world. It feels like it is, trust me, I know. But it never actually is.”

You sighed, watching as Wyatt toddled over with a toy in hand, babbling about something you couldn’t quite decipher. Kylie reached down instinctively, ruffling her daughter’s hair before she turned back to you.

“I’ve been where you are,” she continued. “I mean, maybe not exactly where you are, because, you know—" she gestured vaguely, "—I wasn’t dealing with the entire world watching my love life implode. But still.”

You huffed out a laugh, rolling your eyes. “Glad someone finds my misery entertaining.”

“You know that’s not what I mean.” She shot you a look before taking a sip of her coffee. “I’m saying I get it. I get how much it sucks. I get how it feels like you’re never going to be okay again, like no matter what you do, you’re always going to have this big, gaping hole where he used to be.”

You swallowed, glancing down at your hands. Because, yeah. That was exactly how it felt.

Kylie sighed, shifting Bennett in her arms before nudging your knee with her foot. “But you will be okay again. Even if it doesn’t feel like it right now. Even if it takes a while. Because heartbreak sucks, but it doesn’t last forever.”

You let out a slow breath, looking up at her. “And what, exactly, is the secret to moving on?”

Kylie smirked. “Oh, there’s no secret. You just... do it. One day at a time. You wake up, you do your best, and then, one day, you realize it doesn’t hurt as much anymore.”

You stared at her. “That’s it?”

“That’s it.” She shrugged. “And if it makes you feel better, you will find someone else.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“Absolutely.” Kylie grinned, shifting so she could reach for her phone. “And when you do, I fully expect to help you stalk him on Instagram and determine whether or not he’s good enough for you.”

You groaned. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Maybe.” She winked. “But I’m also right.”

You shook your head, but for the first time in a long time, the idea of moving on didn’t seem so impossible.

The locker room smelled like sweat, grass, and the faint, lingering staleness of protein powder. Preseason camp had been brutal—long days under the relentless August sun, drills that made even the veterans question why they ever picked up a football in the first place, and competition so fierce that the air always felt thick with something unspoken.

Joe sat at his locker, tape still wrapped around his knuckles from practice, shoulders tense as he stared down at his cleats like they held the answers to something he couldn’t quite put into words. He could feel the weight of his teammates around him—the easy banter, the occasional slap on the back, the sound of pads hitting the ground as guys peeled them off like second skin.

Ja’Marr plopped down beside him, kicking his own cleats off with a grunt. “You good, Joey B?”

Joe smirked slightly at the nickname but didn’t look up. “Yeah.”

“Uh-huh.” Ja’Marr leaned back, stretching his arms over the bench. “You’ve been acting weird, man.”

Joe exhaled through his nose, finally glancing over at his friend. “Weird how?”

“Weird like... I don’t know. You’re doing things, man.” Ja’Marr waved a hand. “Going out more. Talking to random girls. You—” He pointed at Joe. “—are acting like me.”

That made Joe huff out a quiet laugh. “And that’s a bad thing?”

“It’s a weird thing.” Ja’Marr eyed him. “That’s not you. You’re not a casual guy.”

Joe didn’t say anything.

Because Ja’Marr wasn’t wrong.

Joe had never been the type to chase after girls just for the hell of it. It wasn’t that he didn’t like women—he did. But he’d always been a relationship guy. A stability guy. The kind of guy who found one person and built something solid. That was just how he worked. It was how he thrived.

But now?

Now he didn’t have that.

And maybe that was why he’d been filling his time with meaningless interactions, fleeting distractions that never really amounted to anything. Because at least if he was doing something, he didn’t have to sit in the quiet and think about what was missing.

Ja’Marr sighed, shaking his head like he already knew what was running through Joe’s mind. “Look, man, I get it. Breakups suck. But this whole... whatever this is? Not you.”

Joe clenched his jaw, flexing his fingers against his knee. “Yeah, well. Maybe I need to figure out who I am without her.”

Ja’Marr studied him for a second before nodding slowly. “Fair enough.”

Joe appreciated that about him—Ja’Marr never pushed, never tried to psychoanalyze him the way some people did. He just... got it.

“But for real,” Ja’Marr added after a beat, standing up and stretching, “if you ever wanna talk, you know where to find me.”

Joe smirked. “Yeah. At the club.”

Ja’Marr grinned, tossing a towel at his face. “Damn right.”

Joe shook his head, watching as Ja’Marr walked off, leaving him alone with his thoughts once again.

And that was the thing.

No matter how many people surrounded him, no matter how much he tried to distract himself—at the end of the day, he still felt alone.

[syluslnd]

Fluff request where reader does a prank and sneaks something cute on Sylus right before he goes out to the N109 Zone or a meeting with his business partners? Maybe like sneakily putting a cute lil pink bow on his hair and he only notices when everyones seen it😭 it could end in fluff or smut where he punishes her, you decide!❤️

𐙚 ౨ৎ ────୨ৎ──── ────୨ৎ──── ۶ৎ 𐙚

Sylus always carried himself with an air of authority. From the crisp way he dressed to the effortless confidence in his stride, everything about him demanded respect. He was meticulous, calculated— someone who rarely let his guard down.

That's why, when you saw him walk out the door for an important business meeting with a tiny pink bow tucked into his silver hair, you had to bite your lip to keep from laughing.

It had been a harmless prank. Something small and silly. He had been too preoccupied reviewing his notes, barely glancing in the mirror before leaving and you? Well, you had just wanted to see if you could get away with it.

The answer was yes-for a while because Sylus did not notice at least, not until it was far too late.

The stares had started the moment he entered the conference room. At first he ignored them,people often stared at him out of respect, fear, admiration. But there was something different this time.

Muffled snickers. Averted gazes. A few of his colleagues coughing to cover up what I knew were suppressed laughs.

he frowned.

Then, just as he reached for the first document,he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the sleek, black surface of the table.

And there it was a small, delicate pink bow perched on his head like some ridiculous accessory.

his eye twitched.

Oh.

Oh, you were going to pay for this.

By the time Sylus returned home that evening, he was still wearing the bow.

You were in the bedroom, humming softly to yourself as you made the bed, completely unaware of the storm brewing behind you.

When you heard the door open, you turned with a bright smile.

"Oh, you're back! What do you want to eat-“

Everything shifted in an instant.

Before you could finish your sentence, a powerful force pinned you down onto the bed, the mattress dipping beneath you as you let out a startled gasp.

Your breath hitched, eyes widening in shock.

Sylus loomed over you, his crimson eyes gleaming with something dark and entirely too amused.

You opened your mouth, only for him to lean in, his voice a low murmur as he cut you off.

"Darling" he purred, his tone laced with dangerous amusement "did you think I wouldn't notice?"

Your gaze flickered to his still perfectly styled silver hair-and, to your horror, the pink bow was still there.

Oh.

Oh, you were in trouble.

You swallowed hard. "S-Sylus, I-"

"You” he interrupted, dragging his fingers along your wrist "are so very mean to me."

He sighed dramatically, as if truly wounded.

"You made me a laughingstock today."

Your face burned under his intense stare. "It—it was just a joke! I didn't think you'd actually-"

His eyes narrowed slightly.

Your words died in your throat. Then, with a slow, deliberate movement,Sylus crawled onto the bed.His presence was overwhelming, his weight pressing into the mattress as he caged you beneath him.

"You didn't think, did you?" he murmured, tilting his head. "and now I have to punish you for it."

You barely had time to react before you felt it—the pull of his Evol.A sudden, invisible force spread your legs apart, parting them farther and farther until Sylus easily slid between them, his hands lazily resting on either side of you.

You gasped, your face burning.

"S-Sylus—!"He smirked.Then, ever so slowly, he leaned down, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispered,

"Let's see if you're still laughing now, little troublemaker."

[damneddamsy]

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

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

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

Claere.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What are you looking at?” he asked.

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

“Have you found something worth your study?”

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

He snorted. “Broad?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Strong... and fat.”

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

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

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

“Perhaps I should try harder.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ma! Da!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But Da—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

X

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And gods help him, he hoped it was true.

X

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

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

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

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

“Ma?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

His brows furrowed. “That’s it?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Claere understood in an instant.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He needed to be allowed to try.

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

"Hm?"

"Will you talk to Da?"

She tilted her head. "About?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh, my sweet boy."

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

X

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mine is expected. Yours isn't.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The raven?”

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

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

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

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

“Aye.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not often, anyway,” she quipped.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Cregan—”

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

“But—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not for a long time,” she said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She did.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Like what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I think you’ll survive.”

And just like that, the hunger stirred anew.

X

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Meanwhile, Bran had not let go of his mother.

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

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

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

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

Bran nodded, swallowing hard.

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

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

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

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

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

“We may have made a babe last night.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

A sniffle interrupted them.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Goodbye, Da!"

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

"We'll miss you, Bran!"

The North called. Duty answered.

But love… love hesitated.

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

Because he knew himself.

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

He would not go at all.

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

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

X

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

But it was different to see it.

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

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

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

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

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

That night, he could not sleep.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Probably,” Cregan agreed, grinning.

Bran narrowed his eyes, then lunged.

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

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

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

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

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

The blade clattered onto the dirt.

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

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

Bran swatted it away, scowling.

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

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

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

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

He bent down, fingers brushing the hilt.

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

Cregan cocked his head. “What will?”

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

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

A silence stretched between them.

Then, instead of speaking, Cregan raised his sword.

“Pick it up,” he said again.

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

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

Bran exhaled, adjusted his grip, and lunged.

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

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

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

“You will learn,” Cregan said.

Another strike, another deflection, but Bran kept moving.

“You will grow.”

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

“You will be strong.”

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

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

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

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

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

X

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

[acmeangel]

♡ You're a member of Levi's Squad, and he asks you to marry him, when disaster strikes.

♡ SFW ♡ Canon!Levi x Fem!Reader ♡ One shot, a bit angsty, mentions of blood, injury, near-death experience ♡ Word count: 3019 ♡ Summary: After finally accepting that you're there to stay, Levi asks you to marry him. You're a member of his Squad, and being with him has always felt right. Not too long after, a dangerous scouting mission leaves you with a grave injury, and Levi is faced with the fear that you might not make it.

When Levi asked you to marry him, it wasn’t with some extravagant proposal or planned-out, grand romantic evening.

You both were lying in your bed in the barracks, your body half-draped on top of his, your fingers lazily playing with strands of his hair. His hands grazed up and down your back with a steady, soothing tempo.

You’d both returned from a scouting mission earlier that day — one with too many casualties, as there always seemed to be. Levi had recruited you to be on his Special Operations Squad years ago, based purely on your stats from previous missions with other squads. At first, he had respected you, much like he’d respected all of the members of Squad Levi; a group of people willing to join the riskiest regiment and put their lives on the line in the futile hope to save humanity.

Respect had eventually turned into friendship, which had then grown into something more. You two loved each other long before your romantic relationship had begun; so when it finally did, it felt natural, like it was always supposed to be that way.

In your bed, that night, he looked at you with a tender softness that bordered on melancholic. It was a look that he didn’t show often. His eyes revealed how deeply he cared for you, how much he wanted to shield you — who he saw as one of the last few truly good things left in this world — from the cruelty, violence, and destruction that ran rampant around you. It was a look that no one else ever got to see.

“I want to run something by you,” he stated, his voice level and smooth as ever.

“Oh, do tell, Captain.” You laughed, faintly, your eyes sparkling with a glint of amusement.

His hand traced up your back and slid around your neck, his thumb rubbing gentle, affectionate circles onto your skin.

“How would you feel about the two of us being together, like this, forever?” he asked, his gaze locking onto yours, an unusual stiffness in his expression. You couldn’t believe it, but he was actually nervous.

You blinked once, twice and tilted your head. “Levi, are you asking… me to marry you?”

You weren’t entirely surprised that this was how he’d phrased it — he’d never been one for verbosity or overly sentimental language. He’d showed his love for you more in his actions; in the way he always checked you for injuries at least three times after a mission, in the way he’d stroke the back of your hand with his thumb when he held it as you fell asleep, in the way he’d insist on giving you half of his own breakfast every morning so you’d have enough energy for the day.

“Yes, Y/N,” he’d said, his hand shifting to cup your cheek, his soft gray eyes settling into yours. “I’m asking you to marry me.”

You felt all of the blood rush to your head, your entire body overwhelmed with excitement, joy, and love for Levi.

“Yes,” you managed to say — and repeated the single word at least twenty times, as you leaned in to press your lips to his, peppering him over and over with kisses.

“Alright, alright,” he’d mumbled after the twentieth kiss, his cheeks then flushed with a soft pink blush.

You beamed with joy as you pulled your face back from his, your eyes glimmering with adoration.

“So,” you began, a hint of playfulness in your voice, raising your eyebrow, “do I get a ring then, or what?”

His lips pressed together, his gaze narrowing just a bit as he considered the question, a puff of air escaping his nose.

“Fine.” His voice was a low, dry mumble, but his lips bent into a small smile, the tension in his forehead releasing. He couldn’t help but give into every one of your requests, no matter what.

His eyes scanned around the room, looking for something suitable, before he reached out to the bedside table, the muscles in his shoulders and back flexing as he took a paperclip from a stack of papers. Turning back to you, his fingers worked with precision to unravel the paper clip, the wire of which he used to form a nearly perfect circle. He took your hand, his touch gentle, and slid the makeshift paper clip ring onto your ring finger in one swift, delicate motion.

“How’s that?” His eyes studied your face, intently waiting for any sign of reaction. “Temporarily, anyway.”

Your cheeks blushed uncontrollably and you gleamed with a smile so wide it made the muscles in your face turn sore. Seeing you this way made him smile — a real smile.

“It’s perfect,” you’d whispered, practically choking the words out. “Much better than any stupid diamond I’ve ever seen.”

“Think we need to do the whole ceremony thing? Or can I just start calling you my wife now?” His brows scrunched together slightly as he waited for your answer, and you could tell how badly he wanted to skip the frills and formalities and simply be yours, eternally.

At the sound of the word ‘wife’ your chest swelled with affection, and your eyes became misty, blurring your vision of him.

“Screw the ceremony,” you whispered, your voice shaking with overflowing emotion. “We’re married, now.”

“Good,” he whispered back, his own voice fraught with feeling, as his thumbs brushed away the tears that had begun to roll down your cheeks. “I love you, Y/N. You know that.”

His eyes bore into yours, seeking confirmation. He didn’t say ‘I love you’ often, only when it really counted.

“I know,” you whispered. “I love you, too, Levi.”

******

It was only weeks after that — after the moment Levi decided, finally, that you would be by his side forever, that he knew you’d never leave him — that your squad was faced with a particularly dangerous mission.

It was another reconnaissance mission, much like all of the other Scouts’ missions had been, but no one could have anticipated the amount of Abnormals. The Scouts hadn’t reached a single objective before entire groups of Erwin’s formation had been wiped out by the Abnormals, which were making their way closer and closer to the center groups. Erwin had officially called for a retreat — something he rarely ever did, only when the situation was dire.

Levi Squad raced forward on horseback, galloping past the blurred, unidentifiable carnage of comrades; the once green fields had turned red and rotten.

Your gaze was fixated intently on Levi, catching glimpses of his profile as he led the squad forward — to anyone else, he looked entirely collected. But you knew him too well and had memorized all of his micro-expressions, and based on the tension in his jaw and the chilled intensity of his gaze, you knew he was worried, too. He’d often admitted that he never knew what the outcome of these missions would be, that no one did, and you could see his mind racing with that exact thought.

The pounding of impossibly large footsteps caused the ground to shake just slightly, enough to make your head whip around and see a group of Abnormals charging forward with unprecedented speed and force.

“Captain!” You’d called out, drawing Levi’s attention. He’d simply glanced over his shoulder and ordered to keep moving forward per Erwin’s command; based on the looks the rest of the squad exchanged, you knew they were unsure about this decision.

Before anyone could think or say another word, one of the Abnormals had surged forward and began to reach for Eld, whose blades were inexplicably jammed in his ODM gear. The panic in his eyes was enough to strike fear into anyone.

You sprung into action immediately — this was simply how you were. You never wasted time thinking, you only acted. It was reckless, perhaps, but you’d gotten results time and time again, and the thought of losing a friend without trying to save him was unacceptable to you.

This was one of the things Levi loved most about you, and it was also one of the things he wished so badly to change about you. He admired your selflessness, your fearlessness, the way you never seemed to be paralyzed by indecision. But, sometimes, it felt to him like only a matter of time before something terrible would happen to you.

You’d managed to sink a grappling hook into the Titan and propel yourself off of your horse, in the direction of Eld, knocking him out of the Titan’s path. You’d planned on being able to then reach the nape of the neck and put an end to this, but you were too rash, too impulsive to anticipate that the Titan’s next movement would whack your ODM wire to the side, bringing your body flinging through the air with it.

The rest, in your recollection, was more or less a blur. You knew that the Titan curled its fingers around your body, its grip bruising your skin and rendering you too immobile to fight back. You knew that you’d heard Levi yelling — actually yelling. You knew that the Titan had brought you to its mouth and managed to sink its teeth into the side of your body enough to make you lose consciousness, but not enough to kill you. You knew that Levi was the one who had intervened, who had saved your life. The last piece of memory you had was the sight of Levi’s face as he grabbed you from the Titan, a look that was so intense, fear-stricken, and furious, it bordered on crazed.

After getting you back onto the ground, Hange had ridden over on horseback and hoisted your limp body onto the horse, carrying you out of harm’s way.

Levi took care of that Titan himself — he made sure of it. Blinded by rage and agony, he slaughtered the Titan with a brutality he typically withheld. Normally, Levi did only as much has he had to in order to kill a Titan. This wasn’t fun for him, it wasn’t a game; he didn’t like fighting, he didn’t like being violent.

But this was different — he sliced the Titan apart, his movements a fevered, merciless haze, his vision red with bloodthirstiness. By the time he was done with the Titan, it was a mere pile of limbs, and he was drenched in its blood.

He’d finally reached the wagon that you’d been placed in, climbing into it with urgent movements, trailing Titan blood behind him. His pupils were constricted; his eyes were glowing with panic.

Your body was lying flat in the wagon, Hange and some of the other squad members hovering over you, attempting to tend to your wounds, their efforts proving futile. They’d managed to wrap a bandage over where the Titan had bit you, but you were bleeding through it with no sign of stopping. There wasn’t anything left to do until you all returned inside the walls.

“Get the fuck away from her! Don’t fucking touch her!” He shouted, his voice coarse and sharp, his arms effortlessly shoving everyone else away from your limp body. He stood over you, his eyes wild with emotion, his chest rising and falling with breaths so heavy it looked almost painful.

When he dropped to his knees beside you, his eyes caught sight of your hand, on the makeshift paperclip ring he had made you, that you’d refused to ever take off. An ice-cold chill rushed down his spine, so sharp it felt like it was actually ripping him apart from the inside out.

“Why is this wagon moving so damn slowly?!” He snarled to the rest of the squad, his eyes desperately glued to your face, while the others scrambled to try and speed the journey up as much as they could.

He grasped onto your hand with both of his as if the sheer force of his grip could heal you and bring you back to him. His eyes didn’t waver from your face once, his gaze burning into your skin, searching for even the slightest sign of life; all he was met with was your pale, sweat-glistened skin. You looked peaceful and it snapped his last thread of self-control — he wanted you to fight.

An uncontrollable, livid, primal growl escaped his mouth, unable to form any coherent words. Spit flung off his lips and into the wind, his expression was frenzied with helpless rage and despair.

The rest of the squad’s expressions froze. They’d never seen Levi be anything but stoic, apart from when he was actively slicing the nape of a Titan’s neck. Goosebumps dotted their skin as they simply watched, eyes wide, unsure of what to do. Levi had forgotten anyone else was even there; he cared about nothing in that moment but you.

He watched as your face turned paler, as your breathing became so shallow that it was hardly perceptible. You were slipping through his fingers, and there was nothing he could do about it — for once, his strength meant nothing.

“No,” he barked, his voice gruff and strained, his grip on your hand tightening until his knuckles turned blazing white. “You won’t be taken from me. This shitty, goddamned world is not going to take you from me. You gave your word, Y/N. You said forever. Don’t back out on me now.”

His cries didn’t make a sound, but the sight of his back heaving raggedly and his hot tears dropping down onto your face was unmistakable. His face was twisted with anguish; his teeth were visibly clenched together so forcefully that they could’ve cracked. His hands began to involuntarily shake as they held onto your hand, the paperclip ring digging into his skin.

******

The next time you’d opened your eyes, you were confused. Your vision was blurry for a few moments, until you were met with the sight of the medical unit and you realized you were lying in one of the beds.

The next thing you saw was Levi’s face, the veins in neck tense with distress, the circles under his eyes darker than you’d ever seen them before. You took a deep breath, which hurt, and you felt the bandages around your waist expand and contract against your skin.

Upon seeing your eyes begin to faintly blink open, Levi moved to the edge of his chair, his hand urgently reaching out for yours, his eyes wildly moving across your face.

“Y/N?” His voice was raspy with disuse and lack of sleep, his tone pleading and tinged with hope.

“Levi…?” you whispered, groggily, your voice low and coarse.

His eyes fluttered closed with relief, his shoulders slumping as his head dropped down to your hand, holding it to his forehead with reverence. “Oh, thank god…” He whispered, his voice stilted with emotion.

Once Levi composed himself, and you began asking him questions, he explained to you, briefly, what had happened — he didn’t want to alarm or worry you with the more gruesome details until he was sure you were okay. All he told you was that a Titan had attacked you on the last scouting mission and that you’d been in the medical unit for weeks.

You’d learned later that the entire time, Levi had barely left your side. He’d sat in a chair next to you, watching you, talking to you, holding your hand, and urging you to wake up and come back to him. At night, he’d slept even less than usual, nodding off in his chair for only an hour or so here and there. Some of the other squad members could have sworn they’d even caught glimpses of Levi crying when he thought no one else was around.

The only time he ever left your side was if he had to go to briefings and meetings. When he did, he’d threaten medics into sitting by your side, outlining grave consequences for if anything happened to you while he was gone. He’d skipped meals, trainings, and anything else that wasn’t absolutely mandatory for him to attend.

After he’d finished helping you sip some water and become less groggy, he just looked at you, his eyes scanning over every centimeter of your face, as if making sure that you were really awake and stable and it wasn’t some insomnia-induced hallucination.

“You’re done with the Scouts,” he’d said, finally, his voice firm, unyielding — it wasn’t a question, but a statement.

“Huh?” Your brows pressed together with confusion. “Who decided that? Erwin? What, does he think I’m useless now?”

“No, Y/N.” He shook his head, taking a soft breath before continuing. “I’m deciding it.”

“Levi-“

“No,” he cut you off before you can even think to object. His jaw clenched, his expression was fraught with concern. “Y/N. I thought you were… gone. It nearly killed me. This- nothing can ever happen to you again. You’re my wife. I need you to be here, with me. I need to know you’re safe, Y/N. I can’t- if you’d actually… Please, Y/N.”

For a moment, this surprised you. Outside of missions, Levi had never told you what to do or asked anything of you — he was protective, but not possessive. You being with him, caring for him, and loving him was more than he’d ever dared to hope for in his life. To him, you’d settle for him despite his most hidden scars, and it felt wrong to ever ask for more.

But he was asking you to do this. Begging you. For him.

“Okay,” your voice dipped to a gentle softness, your hand reaching out for his again, somewhat weakly. “Okay, Levi. I’ll leave the Scouts. Nothing will ever happen to me again. Everything’s going to be okay.”

A slow, uneven breath escaped his lips, as if expelling all of the fear and tension in his body. He collapsed into you, softly, his forehead pressed against your shoulder.

“Thank you,” he breathed, the words barely making a sound. “I love you, Y/N. More than you’ll ever know.”

He didn’t say it often, only when it really counted.

Masterlist

Requests are OPEN!

Requested by anonymous!

Taglist (message me to be added!): @leviykwim

[heeikeuu]

── .✦ ENHYPEN DRABBLE; When You Play Love&DeepSpace

۶ৎ featuring – enha x fem!reader

۶ৎ genre – fluff, romance, slice of life

note: hai people, I'm new to writing fanfics, but I hope you enjoy this <3

HEESEUNG ᝰ.ᐟ

You were lying in bed giggling at your phone while your boyfriend was gaming. "Nightly Rendezvous" banner teasers just dropped, and u were watching them with the volume a little too high that heeseung heard and got curious. He sneakily decided to check out the commotion. His eyes were wide, and jaw dropped. "Baby, what are you doing?" He asked, making u flinch in surprise, "Jesus christ, seungie, you scared my soul off my body." Upon seeing how red your face got your boyfriend smirked, suddenly you're trapped in the bed with his hands on either side of your head. Looking up at him like a deer caught in headlight, "I didn't know u were into stuff like this?" The question really was rhetorical but you just sheepishly smiled at him and grabbed your phone, "he reminds me of u a lot" you showed him Rafayel, your boyfriend is taken aback at first but soon shakes his head and giggles at you. "At least now I know what you do when you miss me." You lightly slapped his arm before giving him a peck on the lips, not really disagreeing with his statement.

JUNGWON ᝰ.ᐟ

Jungwon was lying beside you in bed. Both of you on your phones and just enjoying each other's presence after a long hectic day at work. You were busy trying to pull for Xavier's limited myth after saving up for a long time that you didn't realize your boyfriend got bored of his phone eventually and was watching you instead. Suddenly, your boyfriend spoke, "Which cards you aiming for?" Looking up from your phone, you notice his eyes on you and smile softly, "I want to get Xavier's limited myth, Lumiere is so hot" your boyfriend blinked at you for a few seconds before giggling, "not more than me though, right?" He asked teasingly while poking your arm, but you definitely caught on to the double meaning. "Of course not, wonie, nobody is hotter than you, silly." You stated as a matter of fact while looking at him through your lashes, "y-yeah" stumbling on his words a little he smiles sheepishly and pulls you closer with his head on your shoulders, landing a small kiss there, "don't mind me."

JAY ᝰ.ᐟ

Jay was in his office. It was break time, and he opened his phone to see what his fiance was doing. He noticed her newest post update saying she really wanted to collect new outfits for her mc, shaking his head lightly and smiling. Being the gentleman he is, he sent her money to buy that outfit and more, whatever her heart pleased. He loved spoiling her rotten, and he was well aware of that and didn't mind. You heard your phone ding while doing your makeup, you eyes widened seeing what your boyfriend texted, "I noticed you wanted new outfits for your mc so here's some money to get whatever you want, darling ❤️" with $500 sent to your account. You quickly texted him back, thanking him and saying he really didn't have to. A call interrupted your thoughts. It was your fiance, picking it up quickly. "Hi darling, just wanted to let you know that I will be heading home a little late today due to an emergency meeting so please make sure to eat well and don't stay up too late waiting for me." You hummed in agreement, "I need words, darling" blushing at his words, "okay, I promise." "Good, also make sure to show me your cute mc outfits later." Smiling to yourself at his thoughtfulness, you agreed, and the call ended. Kicking your feet and rolling in bed like a maniac, you thanked your lucky stars for giving you a real life Zayne.

JAKE ᝰ.ᐟ

Jake just came home from practice, hearing your fast footsteps after yelling, "Baby, I'm home." He smiled warmly, seeing you run into his arms. "I miss you, baby, and I have so much to talk to you about!" You exclaimed excited. Holding you up with one arm, he smiled back at you. You were his little fluff ball of energy. He already knew you were going to talk his ear off about Sylus later, but he didn't mind at all because he loved seeing how you got all nerdy about your interests. After taking a shower and eating dinner together, he sat on the couch with her in his arms as she started explaining the whole lore to him with a PowerPoint ready on her ipad. Giggling at how cute she is being. She let out a sigh "jakey are you listening? This is super important!" You stressed, and your boyfriend looked at you sweetly, "I'm listening, baby. Please continue. What happened next?" He always matched your energy, and you loved this about him. No matter how tired he was, he was never too tired to listen to his girl yap about whatever for hours.

SUNGHOON ᝰ.ᐟ

You were scrolling through tiktok during your break until you stumbled upon an edit of zayne with enha's song. Letting out a gasp, you excitedly sent the link to your husband while giggling. The familiar sound of your notifications filled the quiet office room. Already knowing its sunghoon, you smiled and opened the chat. "I see you're having fun, but I'm here suffering missing my pretty girl," you mentally face palmed at his cute antics. Deciding to tease him a bit, you responded, "Can't a girl have two husbands?" And the next lines of texts of him went like "oh my god. My wife hates me. She wants me to die. Goodbye, world." Chucking at his dramatic behavior, you decided to call him. He picked up almost immediately, "Hi Zaynie~" you chimed in a teasing tone, you heard your husband sigh, "hello to you too wifey, now would you please mind finishing your work early because your husband is going to die waiting for you at home." You always loved how dramatic and cute sunghoon was, people often thought he was cold at first but to you he was a grade S soap opera actor, and you wouldn't trade the world for him. You always told him that and whenever he asked, "What about Zayne then?" You jokingly told him,"know your limits." But deep down, you were grateful your man always supported your interests despite acting sulky at times.

SUNOO ᝰ.ᐟ

You were laser focused on trying to win kitty cards against Caleb that you didn't notice your boyfriend was calling for you from the bathroom. It was nighttime, and usually time for your skin care routine together. "Princess, can you hear me?" He asked worriedly. He came into view with a face mask and his arms crossed. "What's so important it has your mind preoccupied like this?" He questioned, but you quickly brushed him off saying "wait I'm trying to beat caleb in kitty cards, and he's driving me crazy!! He keeps freezing me and stealing my points!" Your frustrated tone made sunoo chuckle before coming closer and taking your phone away, gasping you look up, "sunoo please baby just this one round," "You said that like 2 rounds ago, baby, come on, it's time to take your makeup off. I promise after we can beat him up together." Puffing your cheeks, you agreed. "Okay, but since you're better at kitty cards, you better win all!" You pointed your finger at your boyfriend who took your hand and kissed it softly, humming in agreement. Smiling at him while you both went to finish your night routine.

RIKI ᝰ.ᐟ

Sitting on riki's lap, you let out sighs making sure your boyfriend could hear you. Riki glanced down at you from the TV, "what's wrong, you big baby?" You were having a hard time passing the open orbit battles and started getting extra frustrated. "Ki, I can't seem to pass this level no matter what I do!" You expressed, "here, let me try, angel." He sweetly offered, and you let him help. You watch him intently choose the cards and weapons, and start the battle. Your heartbeat spiking as you watched the timer count to 10, and the wanderer's HP was like 3 hits away from victory, which is where you kept failing. "Fucking bitch" you heard your boyfriend mutter under his breath and you closed your eyes dramatically scared of losing, "LET'S GOOO" you suddenly heard him say, opening your eyes, you saw the screen flash "victory" and you jumps his bones while thanking him all giddy, "fear not baby, no matter how hard the boss battle is, nishimura will always prevail" he says proudly making u giggle at his silliness, "of course, baby" you kiss his cheek and returned to your game but noticed through your peripheral vision him blushing with a smile he failed to hide.

© heeikeuu | likes and reblogs are appreciated ♡

[chosove]

Like a Friend | g.s

synopsis. Gojo fell in love with Utahime’s stepsister the second he saw her. Unfortunately for him, you were taken. You were also about 3 years older than him. It wasn’t fairing well for Gojo since you’d always see him as the awkward kid you grew up with.

warnings. Literally none LOL I think this is cute but let me know😼 I think some parts are suggestive but other than that I fink it’s good?!

an. Um this is my first time writing like a proper fic…bare with me🥲 let me know if u like it…if not don’t tell me dawg. if this is liked I will make more parts

wc. 2k-ish

Satoru still remembers the first time he saw you.

Or rather, the first time you saw him.

He was standing on your front lawn with Utahime in front of him, a hand of his reaching behind her head to slip her hair from the accessory she held it in. He’d just arrived home after his first day of junior high school, deciding to blow off some steam upon seeing his favorite upperclassman.

“Give it back, Gojo!” Utahime shrieked, one hand gripping the hair now hanging down her shoulders after being freed from the bow she’d tied it into.

Satoru smirked as he continued to bounce the accessory above the older girl's head, laughing at her attempts to reach the ribbon.

“Aw c’mon ‘hime, ya gonna cry?” He taunted, delighting in the cherry red color her cheeks were painted with, her face contorting into pure rage.

“This is not how you treat those who are older than you!” Utahime shouted at him, now lunging towards his neck with her arms stretched out as he held her back with a hand on her forehead.

Before he could come up with a quick retort, he heard a voice speak behind him.

“Hmmm? And what would you know about respect, Utahime?”

Gojo lost focus when he turned towards the source of the sweet sound, heat rising to his cheeks as he made eye contact with the girl he identified as Utahime’s new stepsister (like really new. like, ‘6 months ago’ new. not that he kept tabs on Utahime- he’d just remember if he saw a pretty girl). Using his state of awe to her advantage, Utahime kicked at Satoru’s knees, knocking him to the ground before landing on him with a grunt and pulling her ribbon from his hands.

“First of all, you’re only like a year older than me. Second, do NOT group me in with him.“ she grimaced as she spoke the last word, a disgusted nudge of her chin towards the man on the ground.

You scoffed at her remark, finally looking towards the eyes that were burning a hole into you. “whatever you say ‘hime.“

Gojo blushed fiercely as you continued to make eye contact with him while saying the same things he did. “Doesn't really seem like you two hate each other right now…I’d go as far as saying I see a spark.”

Realizing the position he was in, he quickly shoved Utahime off of his body, ignoring the grunt that left her as she fell onto her back.

“Ew!” Gojo shouted, turning to you once he’d gotten up. “S-she wishes she were my type, as if.”

Did he just stutter?

Sure, he was a loser that loved digimon and unexplained physics problems, but usually he was the one to make people stutter. Even if he used too much axe body spray and had the odd pimple or ten- he was undeniably beautiful.

You smirked at his shy demeanor, a drastic change from the boy who had just been tormenting your younger sister in a way you thought only yourself capable of.

You turned once again towards Utahime. “You coming for dinner or you just gonna play with your boyfriend all night?” your voice teased, giggling at the anger emanating from your younger sister.

Glancing away after seeing her nod, you made eye contact with the young man in front of you- his intense gaze scanning all your features as if to memorize them.

“You’re really good at getting on her nerves y’know. She talks about how much she hates you like, all the time.”

You leaned in towards his ear before continuing. “Don't worry, I’ll put in a good word for you.”

Before he could emphasize that they really were just friends (even if Utahime says the opposite), you were skipping off to the door of your house.

It was that day he fell for you.

-

It wasn’t until about…eight years later Satoru realized he was not gonna get over you. He also realized after all these years, that maybe he wasn’t that normal about his crushes. Not in the “I’m sooo crazy, I found her moms facebook!” way- no, it was much worse.

“Listen Satoru, y’know I’m gonna support your weird shit like you do mine” Suguru sighed, shaking his head in disapproval as they continued walking deeper into the Victoria’s Secret you worked at. “But isn’t this kinda…too much? How do you even know she’s working today? Or wait, how do you even know she works here?”

Satoru rolled his eyes as if his best friend had just asked the most obvious question. “I looked at her schedule? Duh?” he scoffed, pausing to look at a matching set he just knew you’d look perfect in. Did you own anything from here? Were you required to wear this kinda stuff since it was your job? Your whole wardrobe was probably filled with lacy sets that would just be so easy to rip-

“Dude,” Suguru spoke while waving his hand in front of Satoru’s face. “I’m gonna ignore the borderline stalker shit you just said, plus the fact you’re gonna cream your pants while touching some discount thongs, but why would she even talk to the creepy guys from her neighborhood?”

Suguru had endured every awkward stage Satoru went through- mostly because he was right next to him for it all. From their secret obsession with soap operas and cheesy rom-coms, all the way to those nights of stealing their parents alcohol which would end with Satoru crying as he wondered why you wouldn’t like him back- Suguru stayed.

Unfortunately for Satoru, the boyish charm of this crush wore off when Satoru started doing lowkey scary shit like finding out where and when you worked, for example.

Gently setting down the lingerie he had made a mental note to buy as a first date gift for you (he wasn’t getting ahead of himself, you were gonna be head over heels in no time), he shook his head at his best friend.

“Suguru, Suguru, Suguru” he sighed, placing his hands on his friends shoulders in exasperation. “Obviously you know nothing about love- first of all” Satoru began, puffing his chest out to signal he had no shame over his crush-turned-obsession. “Girls love surprises and grand gestures. This is like, two in one. Second, I didn’t STALK. I mean sure, I did beg Utahime to use the washroom since I ‘conveniently lost my key’ just to get into their house…but thats like, cute.”

Satoru was glad to finally put an end to Suguru’s disapproval when he saw his friend's mouth agape, proud of his actions which were 100% reasonable to him. It wasn’t until he felt a soft hand snake around his shoulders that he realized Suguru still thought he was psycho, it was just the person he was psycho about that made Suguru’s jaw drop.

“Moving this fast with our little ‘hime, hm?”

Snapping back, Satoru flushed deeply at your implication, also wondering how much you’d just heard.

“N-no way!” Gojo nearly shouted, hands desperately waving in front of him to indicate that the only person he’d ever consider in Utahime’s family was you.

You giggled at his wide eyes as you shoved his shoulder, the melody of your laughter becoming his new favourite sound. “I’m kidding ‘toru,”

Oh.

Oh God.

He really was gonna cream his pants- would it be weird if he called you a nickname too? He had so many he wanted to try out, plus he had the practice to back it up- he spent so many nights trying out the different pet names he could call you while he thought of caressing your body, the sound of your voice crying toru toru toru ringing in his ears as he-

“I’m assuming you’re here for a girl though, yeah?” you questioned, watching as the boy behind him shoved Gojo forward. He got so lost in his thoughts that he forgot the main topic of all his wet dreams was right in front of him.

Awaiting his nod of confirmation, you reached across him to grab a light blue pair of lingerie, body pressed against his while you dug through the bins of lace behind him.

He’d be more excited over the color and the fact it matched his eyes if it weren’t for the fact he could feel your tits pressed right against him.

Would it be wrong if he took a peak? Maybe he could pretend to fall and ‘accidentally’ land face first into your chest.

“This one’s my boyfriend's favorite.” you sighed dreamily, fingers running against the frilly edges while you reminisced on what he assumed to be very mediocre nights with your boyfriend.

Huh.

“Looks good on, but even better off” you spoke, outlining the pretty floral details detailing the set. You leaned in to speak in his ear, “plus, it’s super easy to remove, if you get what I mean.” finishing with a wink.

He gulped and nodded at your (far too extensive in his opinion) knowledge.

“S-sounds good, can you ring me up?” Satoru asked, grabbing the set from your hands and racing to the register.

You and Suguru both stared at his broad back nearly falling on his way to the checkout, a curious smirk forming on your lips before you strolled over to the counter. It felt weird seeing the little kids next door grow into…men. Of course Satoru was buying lingerie- he’d grown so handsomely into his lanky feature, now filling out the shirts that you swore were baggy on him just a few years ago.

You carefully scanned the set, folding it oh so prettily before placing it in the sleek black bag, finishing the purchase with a hot pink tissue paper to cushion the bag. Satoru watched your hands methodically do this process as his mind went a hundred miles a minute.

No, Satoru didn’t know what size it was.

Yes, he was devastated at the fact you had some sleazy, lowlife boyfriend (who wasn’t him).

Yes, he was painfully hard from your proximity and suggestive language.

As far as priorities go for him, his goal right now was to successfully make it out of here without you seeing the heartbreak on his face or the fact he got a boner after being near you for like 5 minutes.

It felt like years before you finally passed him the card machine, beginning to speak but quickly being cut off as a beep! rang out and the bag was ripped from your hands. “Did you need a recei-“

“NO THANKS GOTTA GO SEEYOULATERMAYBETHANKSBYETHANKS” Satoru shouted, crumpling the package in his hands and speeding out the doors to his car, Suguru on his tail.

It wasn’t until he was out of the mall that he finally took a breath, the realization that fuck, he actually didn’t have a chance with you? really hitting him.

Yeah, he was a creep who sometimes stared with his mouth open for a bit too long when you would ask him something. And okay sure you saw his awkward phase with braces, then the lisp he had from retainers, then braces again because he didn’t wear his retainers- but still, he was attractive enough right?

Preparing for a scolding from Suguru for almost leaving him behind, Satoru didn’t hide the heartbreak written across his face.

“Hey, I’m sorry man…There’s so many girls who’d die to get a chance with you, don’t worry” Suguru comforted, patting his friends back as he rested his head on the steering wheel.

mumbling something to the floor of the car, Satoru groaned loudly before finally picking his head up. “Not worried. just annoyed. Gonna be harder now.” Satoru whined, closing his eyes as he recalled the way you bit your lip and squeezed his arms. Was he imagining it or did you need him just as bad?

Hearing no clever retort from his friend, Satoru turned his head to find Suguru with pure confusion etched on his features.

“Fuck it. Never let your boyfriend stop you from finding your husband, right?” Satoru spoke, key turning in the ignition as he was filled with a new dedication.

One way or another, Satoru was going to make you see how good you two would be together.

Preferably an easy way where you confessed your love to him first so he didn’t have to fold, but somehow nonetheless.

[lazysoulwriter]

Between the Lenses and the Track -Charles Leclerc.

hes so....

The first time you met Charles Leclerc, it wasn’t exactly glamorous. You were adjusting your camera settings in the Ferrari garage, focused on the telemetry screens reflecting off your lens, when a hand suddenly appeared in your frame, waving dramatically. You lowered your camera just in time to see Charles grinning at you.

“Got the shot?” he asked, playful as ever.

“Ruined it, actually,” you deadpanned, tilting your head. “You owe me a better one.”

From that day on, Charles made it his mission to provide you with ‘better’ shots—though most of them consisted of him making faces, posing ridiculously, or sending you exaggerated winks through your lens. It became a running joke between you two, a small part of your routine in the fast-paced world of Formula 1.

But somewhere along the way, your dynamic began to make headlines.

'Charles Leclerc’s Mystery Woman—Just a Photographer or Something More?’

'Flirty Glances in the Paddock—What’s Going On Between Ferrari’s Golden Boy and F1’s Shutter Queen?’

It was ridiculous. You were just friends, but neither of you ever bothered correcting the assumptions. If anything, Charles found it hilarious.

“Should we address the rumors?” you asked once, scrolling through yet another speculative article.

“I think we should fuel them,” he smirked. “Keep them on their toes.”

So, the flirting turned into an unspoken game. Post-race interviews? Charles would sneak in a comment about how he only pushes for pole position because he knows you get the best shots from there. Press conferences? If you were nearby, he’d find a way to mention your name. Once, he even called you his ‘good luck charm’ on live television, winking directly at your camera.

The fans ate it up.

It was harmless, right?

Until it wasn’t.

—

It happened in the backstage area of a Grand Prix weekend. The session had ended, and most of the paddock was clearing out. You were sorting through the hundreds of pictures on your camera when you heard footsteps approaching.

“Busy as always,” Charles teased, leaning against the table beside you.

“Unlike some people, I actually work,” you quipped without looking up.

“Ouch,” he placed a hand over his chest, mock-offended. “And here I was about to invite you to dinner as a thank-you for all the flattering angles.”

You rolled your eyes but smiled. “Flattering? You make my job harder with all those stupid faces.”

“I give you personality,” he defended.

You turned to him, shaking your head with amusement. It was always like this—effortless teasing, easy chemistry. But then his gaze lingered just a little too long, his smirk fading into something softer, something more intent.

Your breath caught.

It was just Charles. Your Charles. The same guy who made dumb jokes and dramatically posed every time he saw your camera pointed his way. But suddenly, standing here in the quiet, the air between you had shifted. It felt heavier. Loaded.

His fingers brushed against yours, barely a touch, but enough to make your skin burn.

“Careful,” you murmured, trying to keep the teasing tone, but your voice came out weaker than intended. “The media’s watching even when they’re not.”

He chuckled, low and knowing. “Let them watch.”

And then he kissed you.

It wasn’t playful, wasn’t a joke or another inside reference to keep up the act. It was slow, deliberate, like he was waiting for you to pull away. But you didn’t.

You let yourself melt into it, into the warmth of his lips, the way his hand came up to cup the side of your face like he’d wanted to do it for longer than he’d ever admit.

When you finally pulled back, your heart was hammering. Charles, however, just grinned.

“So,” he said, voice still low. “Should we fuel the rumors some more?”

You laughed, breathless. “I think we just did.”

[enyaliuswrites]

➽ Just for Practice

Caleb x fem!reader Thank you @erensfeed for the idea and all the help she gave me!! Tysm nunnie! Hope this is a nice surprise for when you wake up <3 warnings: suggestive topics, mature, kissing (of course)

"Kissing? That’s what got you so worked up? Kissing is why you haven’t been eating my braised pork?" Caleb's lilac eyes fix on you like you’re crazy, a hint of something darker lurking beneath as he frowns.

"Ugh, I told you you wouldn’t get it." you groan, flopping onto your bed in frustration and avoiding his gaze, you didn’t want to see Caleb judging you.

Your high school graduation is just a few months away, but so far, every girl in your class won’t stop talking about the people they’ve kissed this year. Some have only had one kiss, others have had plenty, but out of all of them, you’re the only one who hasn’t had a single one yet. It’s not your fault—you’ve just never found yourself even a little bit attracted to anyone at school.

You didn’t even notice your appetite waning, your mind preoccupied with this. With graduation nearing, the last thing you wanted was to feel left out—missing out on bonding with your friends was the last thing you wanted.

“What’s so special about kissing?? It barely means anything.” his face twists into confusion and disgust, as if really trying to grasp why you’re making such a big deal out of this. Caleb silent mouths ‘kissing?’ before shifting his gaze back to you—just in time for you to throw a pillow straight at his face. But the pillow stops mid-air in front of his face, before dropping onto his lap as he leans back against the chair at your study desk.

“All of my friends have already had their first kiss. That’s like the only thing they’re talking about these days.” Your lips push up into a pout as you grab one of the stuffed animals nearest to you and hug it, allowing your head to rest on the plushie.

“And you’re jealous?” You choke on your saliva, coughing and hacking as your wide eyes meet his—one eyebrow raised and eyes heavy with disbelief. Caleb would’ve never guessed that his girl would grow up to be worried over something as minuscule as a kiss, especially a kiss with someone else.

“I’m not jealous! I mean like… It’s not like… Okay, maybe just a little?” your hands flail wildly all over as you try to defend yourself, but to no avail. Feeling a blush creeping onto your cheeks, you take a quick glance and see that Caleb's gaze has darkened.

“Do you even know how to kiss?”

“Caleb… That’s a stupid question,” you murmur, already knowing the answer. Caleb knew that too. “Why would I be so worked up if I—”

With his lilac eyes fixed on you, he tilts his head slightly, then leans forward. “Would you like to know how?” His words cut through your sentence, leaving your lips parted in shock as you prop yourself back up, still clutching the plushie to your chest.

“What? What do you mean?” your brain struggles to process his words, unable to fully make sense of them as you frown and watch him get up. Caleb's tall figure towers over yours as he steps closer, leaning casually against the wall, making you tilt your head up to meet his gaze.

“I can teach you then, Pip-squeak.” His body lowers, closing the gap between you two as your grip on the plushie loosens. You try to back away, only to find your back pressing against the headboard just inches away.

“I… I mean… does this count as my first kiss?” His right hand reaches out, gently caressing your cheek before softly holding your chin, guiding it towards him.

“Hmm. Think of this as practice.” Caleb's grip on your chin is soft and gentle, completely opposite from his hazy, clouded gaze.

“Oh. Oh…kay then-” you draw the ‘o’ out but as soon as the confirmation leaves your mouth, his lips brush softly against yours. With your eyes closed shut and brows furrowed, he slowly moves, capturing your bottom lip between his own with a delicate pull.

Your body sinks further into the mattress, plush pillows pressing against your back. The bed groans under Caleb's weight as he closes the distance between you, one large palm placed on your hips while the other rests on the headboard. You kiss him back, or at least you try to. You move your lips in the same motion of waves as he does, but everything feels so awkward and off.

Feeling quite embarrassed, and out of air, your intended gently nudges on Caleb's tank top quickly turns into desperate grasps before the kiss finally breaks. You felt like you’ve just ran a marathon—body burning up and your lungs out of breath as you pant, trying to inhale as much oxygen as you could while avoiding eye contact. Though it was harder than you thought, because Caleb was now on top of you, his smirk haunting you as your cheeks flush.

“H-hey! Don’t look at me like that. I told you I don’t know how to kiss…” Your voice grows quieter each passing second as it somehow ends up as a tiny squeak. The sound of Caleb's laughter fills your ears as you turn back to him, his knee now finds itself between your legs as his face hovers just above yours.

“You’re overthinking this, Pip-squeak. Just follow what I do.” Though his words are reassuring, that husky tone in his voice throws you off as he quickly captures your lips into a kiss for the second time. Caleb's lips move against yours in a soft, sensual way as you try your best to mimic him. Remembering what he did to you, you trap the soft fullness of his lower lip and gently apply suction to it. His hums of approval catch you off guard as you feel a subtle rumble of his chest—Caleb's hand snaking down to the small of your back, before pulling your body flush against his.

As if a flip has just been switched, Caleb's lips move frantically against yours, biting your lower lips then soothing the sting with his tongue. Your lips part at the sudden pain, allowing his tongue to delve into your mouth. Soft whimpers escape from your throat as Caleb explores you, tracing every corner and leaving an odd-yet-pleasurable feeling as he does so. Surprised, and a little scared, you push his body off of yours as you cover your mouth in shock, the faint apple taste still lingering in your mouth.

“Your tongue… Do you still use that apple flavored toothpaste or something? Because that’s all I’m feeling? Tasting?” Caleb grabs your hands, lowering it as a light chuckle leaves his lips.

“You’re a natural, Pip-squeak.” Completely ignoring what you just said as his thumb caresses your cheek and he stares at your lips, as if capturing them in a kiss with his eyes, “But I think you need a little bit more practice. What do you say?”

“Oh….Um…” Your voice comes out as uncertain mumbles and murmurs while his face only inches closer to yours. That’s when you realize how Caleb's body is pressed against yours, radiating heat—how heat crept up his neck and spreaded to his ears. How his lilac eyes were still clouded with a hazy and clouded look.

“I think you need more practice.” Caleb already had a taste of you and now he can’t get enough. Your scent seeps into his senses, impossible to ignore—like an addict chasing his next fix. He took your first kiss and now he’s going to take your every first. He was going to make sure of it.

A/N: Ughhh, this was quite hard to write considering I’ve never kissed anyone before. BUT. I have read many writings about kissing so I hope that’ll make up for this. Stay delusional ya’lls! (*´∀`*) Dividers by @omi-resources

[leighsartworks216]

Claw Machines

Sylus x gn!Reader & MC

Raven deserves the world and more and I need to heal their inner child so so bad and who better to help than MC?

Warnings: fluff, silly, growing friendship, arcades, healing their inner child, kissing, swearing, banter

Word Count: 1,678

Main Masterlist

The Raven Masterlist

First Love and Deepspace Masterlist

Second Love and Deepspace Masterlist

Third Love and Deepspace Masterlist

AO3

Tag List Form

Sylus was 'busy', but you're dead certain that was just an excuse to nudge you into bonding with Miss Hunter. When she'd called to invite him out, you saw the smirk that curled his lips. You'd glared at him when he said you'd take his spot. You'd even been tempted to ditch her, but you couldn't in the end, knowing how much she means to him.

The claw moves around the box, following the movements of the little joystick. She looks as if she's facing down a Wanderer, not a stuffed koala with a teddy bear. Her tongue pokes out of her mouth, head swivels to the sides of the box to make sure she's lined up properly, fingers tapping impatiently on the machine before she hits the button. The claw descends. Closes. And as it rises, the koala is stuck in its grasp.

"Yes!" Miss Hunter laughs giddily as she bends down and grabs her prize from the chute. She squishes its face, eyes shining brilliantly with glee. Suddenly, she turns to you. "Have you ever played before?"

You shake your head, appearing quite bored with the whole thing.

"Do you want to try it? I can give you some pointers!"

A relentlessly stubborn part of you wants to refuse. Stand around like her own personal bodyguard while she travels from machine to machine with tokens purchased with Sylus's card and a bag full of toys.

But... you're also curious. You'd peered through shop windows and seen kids with toys your whole childhood, without any hope of having one to call your own. You'd made peace with that a long time ago, aided in the fact you now have plenty of money to live comfortably, though you keep that money close to your chest. Now Miss Hunter's barging through that peace, eyes shining and full of childish energy. And you give in.

You step up hesitantly to the controls. She squeals in glee and stands right beside you, nearly leaning on your arm. "Okay, this is the joystick! You use it to move the claw around. And then when you're lined up with something, you push this button and it'll try grabbing it."

You quirk an eyebrow at her. She smiles deviously. "It's a lot harder than it looks, trust me."

You should have listened to her. She makes it look so easy; you have to wonder if she's somehow using her Evol to cheat. No matter what target you went for, it always slipped through. Sometimes in the most ridiculous ways - bouncing off the edge of the plastic surrounding the chute or flipping off into an unreachable corner. You're not usually one to give up on a challenge, but this is getting ridiculous.

Miss Hunter smiles apologetically at you after your target falls over, just out of reach of the claw. "Maybe this machine isn't calibrated well," she suggests, but it's a half-baked excuse. "Let's try another one."

So you do.

And another.

... And another.

It's agony. She'll take over, pleading with big round eyes and a pout that works like a charm on Sylus to play a round, and get a plushie on her first try. Her bag is almost overflowing. She considers asking for a second one, but she looks sorry when she says so out loud.

Another machine catches her eye and she dashes over like a child. You watch her go.

It's... confusing, contradictory, to see someone like her be so carefree and childish. Her life has not been a cakewalk, and she's been through things normal people would never recover from. Yet here she is, squealing and giggling with delight, while you stand amid the flashing lights and chiming bells, arms crossed and frowning.

You hate to think you could ever possibly be jealous of her. Jealousy was unnecessary when you had all the means to get what you wanted so easily. Still, it's difficult not to envy in some ways the ease with which she enjoys such simple things.

You sigh. You damn Sylus for having you take his place on this little playdate with Miss Hunter. Damn the machines and their stupid claws. Damn all the plushies that seem to hate you.

The arcade is relatively small. When you begin walking around the various machines, it's easy to keep an eye on her. After all, if something happened to her here, it would be your fault. And you don't exactly want a repeat of last time.

It's by pure chance you happen to glance over. Pure random chance that your eyes slipped onto a series of miniature claw machines, stacked 3-on-3 in an alley between the bigger machines. You would not have stopped if you hadn't then done a double-take to make sure you saw what you thought you saw. And sure enough, as you step up to the small machines, you see in one a tiny keychain in the shape of a crow.

It's adorable. Big eyes that take up half its body stare longingly out at the arcade, half-closed with an air of disinterest. A little white ruff wraps all around its body. Two little feet with three toes each stick out the bottom.

You glance around to find Miss Hunter. She's moved on to the Balance machines, where her skilled fingers shift the two-pronged claw to nudge the box off the poles. An employee already stands there, waiting to re-setup the machine, as they chat with familiarity. She seems safe enough...

After a moment of watching to make sure the employee doesn't try anything, you reach into your pocket and pull out the tokens she gave you earlier. You insert one, and a small LED display counts down a timer.

The joystick is tiny in your hand - you can only imagine how it would fit in Sylus's. You shift it over top the crow. After spending however long failing on the other machines, you don't have much hope, especially when these are designed to give the impression of being easier so people will want to try them even more. You push the tiny button, and the claw lowers. The crow is picked up, shifting slightly in its loose hold. It's carried to the chute...

A tiny jingle plays, similar to the one that follows Miss Hunter around every machine.

You... you did it?

You hesitate before opening the little hatch, as though you just imagined all of that and you're going to be woefully out of luck when you reach in to find it empty. But no. You reach in and your fingers touch soft fur. You pull it out. There he is - your very own tiny crow plush.

The crow's big eyes seem to stare up at you, unimpressed. But your mind says he's happy, free from his cramped little prison.

Footsteps approach and you're immediately back on alert. You'd been smiling without even realizing it, but that is wiped away for neutrality. Miss Hunter doesn't seem to notice, gushing over the prize in your hand.

"Awe, you won that! It's so cute!" She pokes its cheek with her finger, giggling. "I've never been able to win anything from these machines. How many tries did it take you?"

Something flutters in your chest. A feeling you'd only felt when Sylus praised you - pride. You really managed to do something she couldn't? It sounded impossible after seeing her win over and over again without fail.

You hold up a finger. She gapes at you.

"What? It only took you one try?!" She looks at the machines, and all the cute mini plushies within. She frowns, considering something, before pulling out a handful of tokens. "Maybe they made these easier, somehow? Let me try."

-

"Have fun?"

You dangle the toy in front of Mephisto. He stands in your lap, playfully pecking and nipping at it. He's careful not to damage or tear it - he's always such a good bird.

Sylus wraps his arms around you from behind the couch. His chin rests on your shoulder, large hands massaging your sides. He kisses your cheek. "You're smiling."

Your first instinct is to turn away, but he stops you. Fingers grab your chin and turn you to face him instead. Crimson eyes, smug and teasing, meet yours.

You sigh. You have to admit that it was fun, even if you'd love to be stubborn and say it wasn't. Maybe if you hadn't won anything, you wouldn't have to pretend you hated it. Unfortunately, the toy that dangles from your finger is evidence to the contrary.

"She's a menace on those machines," you say, voice low, like it's a secret.

He chuckles. "How many did she get?"

"I lost count."

You glance back at Mephisto and shift the toy to rest in your palm. He grabs it in his beak, cawing around the object in his mouth, and flits off to go put it with his little hoard. Or, well, you thought he would. Instead, he flaps off to his perch and, using his foot and beak together, manages to hang it by its chain on the end of it. They look like a matching set as he fluffs up and settles down to rest

Sylus kisses the corner of your smiling mouth. You feel exposed. How is it possible for something so small to catch your emotions off guard?

"I'm glad you had fun," he whispers sincerely. "If you'd like, we can go together sometime."

"We wouldn't win anything," you tease. You rub your nose against his, drawing out a soft look of love from his eyes.

He shrugs. "Then we'll steal one."

"How criminal. This may be your most dastardly scheme yet."

"Mhm. And I'll need my best man on the job to help me pull it off." He closes the small gap to kiss you. His thumb rubs over the ball of your chin. Another kiss and his hand shifts to your jaw. Another, then to your neck. He draws you in, over and over, languidly savoring you, like you have all the time in the world.

---

Tag List:

@the-golden-jhope @armycaratlover @sylusfluffymeow @cheesemachine44 @nyx2021 @angel-jupiter @thelittlebutton @pikachuzhc @pomegranatepip @cordidy @an-ever-angry-bi @thejysemongko @deusfoundry @that-lost-one

[luigifan1998]

luigi x wife!reader headcanons. can be set before or after he went mia

right right right. married lu. throws myself on the floor

for the sake of length ill keep this to before he dropped off the face of the earth but ive written a memo to write about the after in a separate post soon

my personal biases might get in the way of this because i am unwell and genuinely think he is in desperate need of someone whos up at 3 am fighting a manifestation of their own hubris in their bed. he needs someone that experiences romantic delirium and is convinced her dreams tell her stories of the two of them from thousands of years ago. a girl thats considered showing up to a convent and who has a favorite saint. a rotten girl who wants to eat a piece of his birth certificate. this is so crucial to me unfortunately

that being said. its my belief that lu is saccharine, something he didnt know until you came along and peeled the wallpaper off his psyche. the way his customary sweetness unravels itself is sickly and all enveloping. hes the neediest boy in the world, forever coming to you with quiet infirmity. he drapes himself over you whenever he can, always saying how you were made to hold him. his incessant appetite for affection didnt ease with marriage. he plays with your ringed finger absentmindedly. presses his lips against it, not registering the habit

he would think of marriage early on in the relationship, unreachable to the anxious expressions of others when he'd say hes going to marry you weeks into dating. when he decided this, he paced back and forth in his bedroom, hardly able to focus long enough to tell the time before seeking his mom out to tell her. it all came out in one big prosaic wave. she thought he sounded like a child but his cheeks were flushed and his heart is so painfully stitched onto his sleeve in regards to you. he doesnt press the idea of the union but he likes to tell you how hes going to make you his wife during random moments. when youre eating. when you make him laugh. when hes fucking you

i can see lu trying and failing to preserve going all the way when you mess around once youve accepted his proposal. the engagement would be long. he is so busy and so wanted by everyone around him, but the novelty of you being his fiancé would wear off after the first couple of months. he wants to fuck his wife, not his girlfriend. he wants the sanctimony of marriage to wrap around the two of you when hes inside. the vow acts as a spectator in the bedroom, and he needs it. needs you to be his and only his under a holy decree. he calls you his bride and his little wife

in my heart of hearts....... i know lu would want to propose in the most cheesy way ever. his sister behind foliage, filming the whole thing. balloons. one knee. the rest of your family nearby. the video would be uploaded onto instagram, people you havent ever met commenting with what a beautiful couple the two of you make. but i think the right girl could pavlov him into asking in a whisper under the soft cotton of a bedsheet. face kisses and crying and pleading for the rest of your life to belong to him in some capacity. he cant live without this

the ring would be beautiful and heavy with weight and the diamond would be absurdly large. he'll never let onto the price, just like hes been doing with the checks at each restaurant youve been to together since your first date. bastard. whats next? steak tartare at the reception? he starts biting you each time you deny being able to accept such an insane piece of jewelry

[steddieas-shegoes]

i love him on purpose

for @steddielovemonth using red, white, and royal blue for inspiration

rated t | 1385 words | cw: forced coming out | tags: established relationship, secret relationship, royal steve harrington, wayne munson is the president (god i wish)

🔴⚪🔵🔴⚪🔵🔴⚪🔵🔴⚪🔵🔴⚪🔵

The news broke in the middle of the night, long after Eddie had fallen asleep, and just before Steve’s alarm woke him up.

PRINCE STEVEN CAUGHT HOOKING UP WITH FIRST SON EDDIE, ROYAL FAMILY INSISTS ON SECRECY

Every headline is some variation of Steve and Eddie being caught, but there’s no photos. Most articles point to the royal family not wanting to allow it, but they didn’t even know about it.

Steve’s been so careful, much more careful than Eddie. Eddie’s told his best friends and Wayne, who deserves to know when his nephew turned son is getting into things. Especially when the thing he’s getting into is the Prince of England.

Steve doesn’t really have many friends. He has Robin, who is more like a sister to him, and an entire advisory team, publicists, security…

He won’t answer his phone, which means all of those people have probably informed him he is to have no contact with the outside world until they figure out what to do. Eddie doesn’t know what to do.

They talked about hypotheticals, as any young adults in the public eye are wont to do. How they’d handle the press when they come out. How they would handle Steve’s family when they come out.

All under the assumption that they would have control over their coming out.

How naive.

“Ed. I have to give some kind of message here,” Wayne says softly, gently like he knows that Eddie is gonna beg him not to say anything until he hears from Steve. “Silence ain’t gonna win us any favors.”

“I promised he wouldn’t have to do this alone,” Eddie says. “If we make a statement now, I’m just throwing him to the wolves.”

“Not necessarily. Plenty of options with what to say. As long as we acknowledge we’ve seen it, they don’t have to have any other information,” Wayne says. “I’ll follow your lead, kid.”

“I don’t know what the right thing is.”

Wayne pulls him into a hug. This isn’t the first time they’ve had a PR nightmare on their hands, and probably won’t be the last. Wayne’s always been good at handling things just fine.

But this is something Eddie needs to handle. He accepts the comforting hug, then he decides to be brave.

****

“Forcing anyone to come out is disgusting, and the media has done it time and time again. In this case, they took something that should have been up to me, and up to Prince Steve, and made it world news based on a false report of someone seeing us together at an event. Whether we are together romantically or not isn’t up for speculation. We are what we are. We choose how to define that to ourselves, to our loved ones, and maybe someday, to everyone.” Eddie takes a deep breath and looks into the many cameras facing him, trying his best to ignore the reporters anxiously waiting to be able to ask questions. He’s not letting them, but they don’t know that yet. “Respect goes both ways. Pops has always taught me that respect is earned, not freely given. No one in this press room has earned my respect. Until you do, the only news story you can break about me is that I’m disappointed in the way the media has handled this news story. Thanks for your time.”

Eddie leaves the room.

Wayne is waiting for him in his office.

“Proud of ya, son.”

“Thanks.”

“Your boy will be here in four hours.”

Eddie’s jaw drops. “He called?”

“He did more than call. He caused a scene with every secretary in the building. He insisted he needed to speak to me.”

“He could’ve called me,” Eddie is pacing.

“You left your phone in here earlier, remember? He was desperate.”

“Is he okay? Have they made a statement yet?”

“They haven’t. They wanted to see what we’d do first.” Wayne holds Eddie’s phone out to him. “But I think he could stand to hear from ya.”

Eddie steps in to take the phone from him, but Wayne clasps his hand between his, holding tight.

“I can’t protect you from the media forever, but I’ll always stick up for you and your happiness. You know that?”

“Of course I do,” Eddie answers.

“That goes for your Prince, too,” Wayne smirks. “His family’s on thin ice, though.”

****

Eddie talks to Steve on the phone for a few minutes, but Steve’s not alone, and Eddie’s trying not to hide away entirely from everyone who cares about him. It’s a short conversation, but it’s enough to get them through until Steve arrives.

He sounds like he’s being stoic.

Eddie knows he’s struggling.

It takes nearly two hours of security for Steve to actually get to Eddie’s suite.

“Baby,” Eddie says as he pulls Steve into his chest, feeling whole for the first time since he woke up. “It’s okay. It’s all gonna be okay.”

“They’re making a statement any minute now,” Steve says miserably.

“I’m guessing it’s not what you wanted.” Steve shakes his head in response. “That’s okay. We can work with whatever we need to.”

“They wouldn’t let me do it,” Steve explains. “I wanted to do something like what you did. They said I was too emotional.”

“I think you’re just emotional enough. God forbid you show signs of being a human.”

Steve laughs. Eddie smiles.

“Have you eaten? Do you wanna get cleaned up? I know you hate how airplanes make you feel,” Eddie offers.

Steve tightens his grip around Eddie. That’s answer enough.

****

“We sincerely hope the media will understand that making accusations of this nature about a member of the royal family will not go unpunished. Whether it is true or not, we will be handling this discussion internally. We have contacted the President’s office to have a discussion with their team. Eddie’s statement today was not discussed with us beforehand, nor did it go through any of our approval, and should not be seen as our official statement.”

“Does your grandfather always look like someone pissed directly in his eye?” Eddie asks Steve as they watch the official statement from his room.

“It depends on which of us has displeased him,” Steve laughs. “If it’s my mother, his lip curls up over his teeth.”

Eddie pulls Steve into his side on the couch, turning off the television so they can have some peace. They sit in the silence for a couple of minutes, something neither of them get to do very often.

“Wayne offered us the house in Indiana for a bit. Said it might be nice for us to just be away from the chaos,” Eddie runs his fingers up and down Steve’s arm, smiling to himself when Steve shivers against him. “At least for a few days. Let the media move on and give time for your family to get the sticks surgically removed from their asses.”

“That sounds nice,” Steve agrees, leaning his head back to kiss Eddie’s lips. “I wanna do something first, though.”

Steve pulls away so he can get his phone from the coffee table. It’s been on silent and face down since he arrived. He types for a minute, and Eddie waits.

Steve sets his phone down and turns back to Eddie with a grin.

“Okay, ready to go.”

Eddie’s phone goes off in his pocket. He pulls it out and looks down at where he’s been tagged on Instagram in Steve’s post.

It’s a picture from the trip they took with Wayne to Indiana last month, the two of them by a fire with melted marshmallow all over their lips. They’re both happy.

The caption makes tears pool in Eddie’s eyes and a semi-hysterical laugh burst from his throat.

Doesn’t matter who pissed in his eye, as long as I’ve got you. Let’s go off the grid, baby

“You’re gonna be in so much fuckin’ trouble, baby,” Eddie laughs with disbelief.

“I don’t care. They know better than to cause a bigger scene.” Steve kisses the corner of his mouth. “Can we go to that diner when we get there? The one with the burger that have cheese inside the meat?”

“How American of you,” Eddie teases. “I’ll make sure Wayne calls Benny ahead of time so he knows we’re on our way.”

[spurbleu]

where the aster grows

ch.1 bookmarks neighbor!price x fem florist!reader

The sky wears blue to your grandmother’s funeral

Memories of yesterday’s rain remain as dew on the grass shards of the cemetery, but the sky gives nothing away. Robin egg belly, sun peaks from behind thinning clouds, and the crisp air denies downpour.

There’s plenty of irony, here. Every fiction iteration of death leads you to believe that nature cries with you, feeding the oceans and the dirt she returns to. And by all accounts of your Ma, who at the ripe age of 87 still jumped in puddles, rain had restorative properties. What about your grief had convinced nature not to join?

Perhaps you had enough for the both of you.

Your father graciously accepts the condolences as people file out into the parking lot. Even from where you stand, you can see the mulberry beneath his eyes, paling ears. At a certain age you forgot his fragility. Found it again as you drove him home after the last visit, offering the tissues in the front compartment. It was the first time you’d seen him cry. You’re nearly 35.

He joins you by the fresh grave once everyone had left. Her coffin is closed, and you think that’s for the best. The morbid curiosity died a long time ago. He doesn’t look at you, and you struggle with your words. You eventually settled with,

“Wanna get dinner? On me.”

His response starts with a sigh. When he faces you, you wish you were five again, when you didn’t recognize misery when it meets your eyes.

“Yeah.”

The hostess gave you a look. It falls somewhere between questioning the formal (albeit bleak) clothes you woreto their hole in the wall diner, or figuring out the relationship between you and man across from you.

The reality is it was a seven-minute walk from the cemetery, and was the cheapest place in the area.

As for your father, he looks young  for having a middle-aged daughter. You were a college baby. Your mom didn’t want the responsibility, but your father lacked the iron fist to change his mind on raising you alone. You’ve seen how guilt stamps itself to the print of his loafers for the trivial mistakes. Your absence would eat him alive.

You chew your noodles in a practiced silence. It comes as a surprise to you when your father is the one to break it.

“Your grandma was still working when she died.”

You pause mid-bite. “The…she still kept the old thing?”

Your Ma, after her retirement and just before your grandfather’s too-early departure to the grave, bought a floral shop. You’d visit them for weeks, sharing their flat in Liverpool and helping around the shop while your father worked. Once Pops passed, Ma offered you a paid position as an assistant. You took the job without the salary.

However, when you went to college, you had to quit. She understood- but said she couldn’t hire someone outside of the family. “Wouldn’t feel right”. You had assumed the shop dwindled with her age, and that it had been lost to time and some expensive construction project. But…

Your father laughs. “You’d be surprised. That ‘old thing’ kept a handful of cliental. Still running now.”

You stutter. The image of your grandmother, arthritis bows and yellowing teeth, giving flowers to a sweaty teen in February makes your eyes water. You take another bite to swallow the feeling.

“She never lost her charm, did she.”

He shook his head. He took out a folded piece of apple slice paper, and under the dim lights of the restaurant you see her cursive in browning ink.  

You look at him over your water glass. He confirms your hunch when he purposely avoids your eyes.

“Dad I can’t-“

He slides the letter to you. “I know. It’s up to you. but you wouldn’t inherit any debt. She owned the property. It comes with her old house, above it. And…”

He doesn’t say you’re jobless, but you hear it anyway. With your recent ‘let go’, you needed something to pay the bills if you wanted a roof over your head. The English major has really only brought you to libraries and we appreciate your application but emails. Your sigh makes your chest cave.

“I’ll think about it.”

The misery in his eyes is replaced by hope. You wish you hadn’t put it there.

“Great.”

The letter wilts on your desk for three days. You procrastinate opening it- not because you haven’t come to an answer, but because it’s the last remaining piece of Ma you have. It would be like unwrapping a limited-edition action figure or leaving an antique on the edge of the table.

You risk losing what made it so special to begin with. The choice to give an object mortality or permanence.

Your hands shake when you peel the stamp.

Missy,

When you read this, I will have finally kicked the bucket. Pops had always been the patient one, between the two of us, but I think he’s waited long enough.

I know you’ve got a lot on your hands. But the shop and house are yours when I’m gone, if you choose to have it. It’d kill your father, if I gave it to him. Don’t think he knows how to feed the flowers, and I can’t have them all dying on me. I’ve got a reputation to uphold. Think it’d just make him miss me, too. I gave birth to such a sap.

Keep him steady for me, will you? You’ll be just fine, I know it. I swear you were born with two green thumbs- if anyone knows how to keep my petunias, it’s you. And if you don’t take the shop, I want you to sell it. Your father has a notoriously bad sense of character.

Love you heaps and heaps and a pebble more,

You better miss me,

Ma.

You’re weeping when you text your dad for the key and address.

Although it is cliché, walking into the store feels like you never left.

citrus oil. tepid rain. chipping paint.

The store architecture is a family secret.

The room was vacant of the crowded charm that drips from green grape wallpaper before it met your grandfather. leather glove labor remains in the medullary rays of the oak that dresses the shop in various shelves, tables and chairs. The centerpiece, an island with base cabinets, is engraved with small familial symbols- some that you recognize- others older than you are.

But it’s not just your grandfather that breathes in the construction of the store.

Your grandmother was a talented ceramist. Being a florist, pots were her specialty. You find many of them in corners and nests on the floor, warm as they were out the kiln, analeptic in gauzes painted off-white and copper. They hold her other children, fiddle leaf figs and dracaenas, next to smaller pots of her florals, dwarfed by their greener counterparts.

But none of these things are known by someone who isn’t you, which is perhaps why it was so important you inherit it. The secret dies the minute its sold.  

The only anomaly is the cat.

Calico sleeps where you’d draw as a child. Nuzzles the lace curtains that haven’t been opened since Ma passed. Looks at you with eyes that convince you animals can miss someone.

You kneel with an outstretched hand, after setting your stuff down. She sits and watches you from afar.

“She’s not here.” You scold yourself for talking to a cat, but when she dips her head to the side you feel strangely understood.

“I miss her too.”

She rolls over, exposing her belly in what you can only assume to be an offering of vulnerability. You run your hand through the burs of her stomach, and when she starts purring the fondness your grandmother must’ve had for her balms your palm and the pit of your stomach.

Everything aches as you sit with applesauce legs on the cool tiles of the main room. It feels weird to call it yours- so you decide to share it with the cat.

“Do you want to run the shop with me?” She rolls over and nuzzles your knee. The corners of your mouth twitch.

Everything lulls. Ataraxia unravels from the spines of the walls. The sun sets over the sills, and the world seems to fold into you, the cat, and the space you’re still learning how to breathe in.

And then the door begins to rattle.

You think it’s a figment- until it rattles again, this time more aggressively.

You’re on your feet in two seconds flat, and the cat scampers to a corner. You see the flickering outline of a wide, tall figure from behind the lace shudders of the door. Your heart leaps to your throat.

In the ten seconds you have before the shadow enters the shop, your franticness focuses on a blue watering can on the shelf. The toolbox with the more intimidating and likely effective weapons sits across the room on a desk, which you do not have time to reach. At least this might keep the perpetrator distracted until you grab them.

The door rattles again, this time it whines at the hinges.

You brace your arm for the throw of your life.

The next few seconds register as a blur. You launch the watering can the minute the door opens, you hear a startled grunt, and you scamper to the toolbox across the room. You pull out a small shovel, aim at the door, until you notice that his eyes seem to be just as startled as yours.

He raises his hands forward in surrender, and your arm falters.

“Who the hell are you.”