#space fishermen

[numberxxisora]

Today, we mess up the game audio for this session, but find an incredible secret in another area of this disc.

[250318]

© blank space. | do not edit and/or crop logo

[virfujiwara]

MESSI & LANA DEL REY????

[meggettes]

ok we’ve got naval-aesthetic spacefarers and submarine-aesthetic spacefarers, now i want to see a fisherman-ass spacefarer. Like crusty Irish or Maine-type. i need space travel awash with superstition and proverbs. something about how you love space and fear it and know at your core it’ll always call you back

[satorena]

࣪ ִֶָ☾. an ugly, green eyed monster resides in the pits of your guts, and to his utmost confusion— don’t you know he has eyes for you only?

cw. 18+. lowkey sub gojo. a littleee foot action. reverse cowgírl. cunningulūs. sorta ruined orgașm. fem!reader. 3k wc.

you’re upset.

you’re upset with him.

what he’d thought had been the perfect date at the perfect restaurant with the most perfect partner, had positively gone to shit, and he’s not sure who’s to blame. himself or that unnecessarily audacious waitress— who might get blacklisted as soon as he gets home for having the nerve to foul his girlfriend’s mood.

(but not you. you’re never to blame. you can literally do no wrong in his eyes.)

he tries to ease the tension in his sleek car by talking your ear off about god knows what, reminds you how beautiful you look in your suede dress, rubs the pad of his thumb at the smooth skin of your thigh— but to no avail, you remain as quiet as you’d been back in that crappy establishment.

after all, there’s only so many “wow’s”, “insane’s,” and “that’s crazy’s” you can muster. . . right?

wrong.

because when you both make it to your shared condo, he hangs his keys on their respective hanger and immediately kneels on one knee. you don’t seem surprised in the slightest— and he’d be a horrible boyfriend if you had been, you deserve nothing short of the ultimate princess package — arms crossed over your chest expectantly.

and just who is he to disappoint you?

his fingers get to work with quickness— expertly as they undo the straps of your heels. he can’t imagine the pain your gorgeous feet endure just for the sake of his lowly self. so he grants you a short but tender foot rub where your skin reddens. his knuckles ease some tension where it throbs, and the soft hum you release is enough to bring a smile on his lips.

he’s finally doing something right.

you roll your ankle once he’s finished his caress, face as stoic as ever, but before you can even think about resting your foot on the floor, he lowers himself and kisses. he peppers the ankle bone in hot, gentle kisses that come from the depths of his soul, and trails his way up from your calf all the way up to your mid thigh. when he lays down the last of his embrace to your leg, cerulean eyes flutter open and meet yours— eyes narrow just slightly.

he doesn’t falter in the slightest, parroting every movement onto the next leg. he undoes the straps of your heels, massages your foot, and spoils your leg in kisses once more. there isn’t an inch of you that doesn’t smell nothing short of divine.

but the moment fleets as soon as it came, and you make your way to your shared bedroom in the blink of an eye. his knee may ache against the hard floor, but he finds it impossible to keep his eyes off of you— there’s a certain elegance in every step you take towards the bedroom, hips swaying with divine femininity, fingers fumbling as they work to undo the hook at the top of your dress.

it’s only when you arrive at the door, that you take a beat of a pause. he doesn’t take his eyes off of you once. he doesn’t think he could if he wanted to, anyway. there’s a pregnant silence in the air, safe from the ticking of the clock in the living room. it seems you’ve finally managed, as your arms lower to rest at your sides and your dress slips comedically slow from your frame and pools at your ankles.

his dick immediately stirs to life. you’d gone commando this whole time. and it’s only when your hand hovers over the knob of the door, you cast him a look over your shoulder, the ghost of a smirk tugging at your coloured lips. you step out of the dress and waltz into your shared space, and he doesn’t think he’s ever ran this fast in his life, tumbling over scattered items in the house in desperate attempts to get to you.

(he picks up your fallen dress of course.)

oh, you’re so beautiful yet so cruel. he admires the duality you carry with ease— like a deceitful siren luring pathetic fishermen into the sea, he falls for your trap with no regards of his own safety, enamoured by your entire existence.

which was how he found himself bound to your king sized bed, limbs restrained to the headrest and his cock throbbing in his tight slacks. he’s flushed from the neck up— he’s so hard it hurts, watching as you pay him absolutely no mind, carrying on with your nightly routine. the anticipation drives him insane, as you pace from the bathroom, the sound of the shower running, before pacing back to your bedroom, grabbing your essentials before heading back to the bathroom.

all the while adorned in your birthday suit. wet and naked— his favorite combination.

god, you’re cruel.

after an infinity and a half, you come out of the bathroom, now wrapped in your silk robe, hair tied up and face completely bare. christ— just when he thought you couldn’t get any prettier. you sit at your vanity, grabbing at whatever tools you needed for your lash care, and that’s his final straw.

“princess,” he croaks, hoping he sounds as desperate as he feels. you tilt your head back, expression entirely remorseless, though you do cock a brow. he swallows harshly, “c’mon, untie me already. please?”

you blink at him, spoolie in hand, “for what?”

for what? isn’t it obvious? for him to grab at your hips, pull you over his face and tongue fuck you so raw that he erases all traces of negative emotions in your soul that’d come to life within the past few hours and have you forgive him of any wrongdoing.

duh.

gojo’s a smarter man and keeps those thoughts to himself. instead, he heaves out a deep sigh that kins to a whine and shifts his hips, “to properly apologize, baby.”

you turn your focus back onto your own reflection in the mirror, running the brush over your lash extensions. even when you pretend to ignore him, you’re beautiful. he doesn’t miss the way you cast him look through the glass though, “well what’s stopping you?”

he tugs his wrists against his ties restricting him as an answer, an exasperated look coating his face. truthfully, he could’ve easily managed his way out of this predicament but then he’d have to deal with your attitude worsening. he’s already on your bad side and doesn’t wish to stay there longer. so, he’s willing to sit this torture out just to have you forgive him.

but good lord, his balls hurt.

you put the spoolie down and sigh. hope blooms in his chest as you stand up from your vanity and make your way towards the bed. as you begin to crawl into bed, he spreads his legs a little further, creating an opening in case you were to change your mind. you have an unreadable expression on your pretty face, and he can’t lie, it’s kind of worrying him.

and turning him on, but fork spotted in kitchen, right?

you take the bait and make your way in between his legs. though, instead of releasing him from his restriction, you sit criss cross and give him a long look. his chest heaves and he’s starting to feel like those madmen scientists that come close to achieving whatever bullshit project they’d poured years of their lives into.

you don’t falter, however, “you want to properly apologize?”

he nods eagerly, like a puppy trying to please its owner, and frankly, that’s exactly what it is. some may call him desperate— pathetic even, but they’ve never came close to having the god earned blessing of having you as their partner. and they never will, so respectfully, they can shut the fuck up.

“that’s all i want.” he emphasizes, and for extra measure, “let me say sorry the best way i know how.”

he watches the gears turn in your pretty head. and, with a convictive nod, you stretch your arms backwards to support your body weight as you bend your knees and spread your legs. and whether or not you meant to send him to the great court in the sky, you swipe your tongue against your index and middle finger, before crawling them down your stomach and right at your cunt, spreading your lips apart in a filthy fucking sound.

his eyes might as well pop out of their sockets in heart shapes as his jaw falls slack. he thinks he hears his stomach growl in hunger, eyes narrowing at the sight of the meal he craves most. your robe slips past your shoulder and reveals a sexy amount of collarbone and boob, while simultaneously slipping past your hips, revealing the cash prize.

your dripping pussy.

his throat runs dry as all rational thoughts are immediately thrown out the window. if he doesn’t have your cunt in his mouth this instant, he might actually die. she clenches around nothing and trickles a tantalizing trail of slick. you have the world’s prettiest smile on your lips, and despite deriving pleasure from his demise, he’d gladly let you ruin him if it got you this turned on.

“thought you wanted to apologize, toru?” you ask him, with feigned innocence and a tilt of your head. and if the cutesy bat of your lashes wasn’t enough to kill him, then dragging your foot over the print of his bulge definitely did. you rest the arch of your heel over his shaft and experimentally roll it around. he didn’t even consider he was into foot play, but coming from you? another box checked from his kink list.

he groans, hips chasing the pleasure set ablaze in his fiery guts, “god— i do. i really, really do,” lord knows if you keep this up, he’s never going to beat the minute man allegations. and frankly? he doesn’t care.

“but i’m right here,” you coo, lowering your foot to cradle at where resides his heavy balls. you nudge at the sack and the whimper that follows his lips cracks a pity pout on your own, “what’s the hold up?”

this psychological ass torture. at this rate, he figures you know he knows he can free himself out of the ties at any given moment. but doing so would definitely upset you. and the chances of him getting some would be slim to absolutely none.

you beautiful yet painfully cruel woman.

“you know what’s the hold up,” he groans, fighting both inner demons and the urge to paint his boxers white, “at this point, you don’t even need to untie me— just let me eat you out, please.”

and like the angel sent from heaven you are, you comply. had he been released from the binding, he’d gladly be kicking his feet in the air and twirling a strand of snowy locks in his fingers in pure bred excitement. except, in the position he’s in, that outcome is not possible. but never fear— munch man is here!

and with his back pressed against the headboard, you stand on the bed, your feet at each side of his hips, and bend forward— not without a quick look back and a knowing smirk of course. and from this angle, with your spine dipping into a sinful curve, he’s presented with a view that puts the goddess of beauty herself to shame.

the roundness of your ass paired with the fullness of your cunt— a two for once combo. hell fucking yeah.

and he wastes no time. he stretches his neck as far as it allows him to and then some, as he indulges into the five star michelin meal that is your pussy. with your arms stretched out and your hands supporting your body’s weight, you moan gracefully into the quiet of the night, your sounds unfortunately overshadowed by the slurping of his filthy mouth at your sloppy core. if he was a better man, he’d have reduced his own volume at the expense of hearing yours,

but it was just so hard when you tasted so good.

and like the selfish bastard he is, he doesn’t quiet down. doesn’t even think to, instead voicing out his delights in the art of cunningulus. yes, because being blessed with the opportunity to have your pussy in his mouth is nothing short of art itself. he flicks his tongue from that sensitive bundle of nerves and drags it up to your tight hole, and tongue fucks the shit out of you.

“s-shit, baby,” a soft mewl comes from your voice. he feels a hand caress his hair, and when your manicured nails claw at those locks, he feels his cock jump eagerly in his pants, “that’s it— fuck, eat it right.”

he’s a weak, weak man. you grind your hips back on his face and praise him for doing what he was put on this earth to do, all the while riding his tongue. he flattens the muscle and lets you use him like the toy he is— up and about for your pleasure, always. if he died suffocating between your plush thighs, don’t mourn his death, because he went out doing the thing he loved,

you.

it feels like both forever and a second when he’s rewarded with your juices. you wail and cry out his name, and before he knows it, you’re gushing all over him— his nose, his mouth, his chin. to the best of his abilities, he widens his jaw and slurps everything you have to offer him. the taste is so authentically you, a sweet nectar you couldn’t pull out of the ripest of fruits from a tree. his face is moist and damp and the only thought process going through his mushy brain is don’t cum just yet don’t cum just yet don’t cum just yet.

luckily, he doesn’t, but you’re not done just yet. because it doesn’t take anymore than a few breaths for him to catch up on unsolicited air, before a deep and boyish moan rips out of his chest like wind had gotten knocked out of him.

in all your glory, you squat down— he’d been too dazed out to even notice when you’d taken his brick hardened dick out— and ride him. you’re pulling out all the big guns— both hands and feet planted on the mattress, your silk robe resting right above your lower back, as you sink down on him.

gods, it takes everything in him— everything, to not bust. his fingers tighten against themselves as his toes curl, and his head is thrown back, but even so, he never takes his eyes off of you. the ripples of your ass ricocheting with each bounce, the amplified bass of your cries, the melody of your wetness squelching on his cock.

why the fuck would he ever look away?

your pace is steady and fast— you are by no means wasting time. and he loves it just like that, quick and meaningless despite his love for you being everything but that. every meet of your ass on his hips comes as fast as the last one, and tugs on the coiling in his stomach ready to snap.

sweat begins to collect at his hairline, and given the fact you’d sprayed him earlier, he’s certain his hair is now matted to his forehead. no matter though, “justtt like that,” he eggs you on, knowing despite your foul mood, there’s nothing you enjoy more than praises. there’s nothing he enjoys more than praising you, “use me baby, this dick ‘s all yours— fuckkk,”

and because he knows his princess so well, you ride him even harder— his sincere words running like fuel to you. he notices your creamed unison coating the peremiter of his dick, glazing his shaft to the point he can barely feel himself in you because of how wet everything feels.

“damn— ‘m not gonna last,” he warns you, and to his biggest mistake. his balls are heavy with love he’s itching to release in your womb, and if you keep jerking at his cock with your gummy walls, he’s bound to spill. he blames it on it being the first round, after all.

you tilt your head back and there’s a mischievous glint in your pretty eyes. you bat your lashes a few times, and the corner of your lips tug into a radiant smile, “yeah? you wanna cum inside, baby?” there is literally nothing more he wants. he nods his head excessively, not enough languages in this entire world to describe in words just how badly he needs to fill you up with his sperm.

but still, he tries with moot point, “yesyesyesyes— fuck, i’ll do anything,”

and with purposeful kegels, you clamp down on his cock whenever you bottom out and latch onto his tip whenever you sit up. he can’t take anymore— he feels heat licking at every extremity of his limbs, blood rushing into his head and his abdominal muscles are caving in. he needs it— he needs it.

at the very last second, just as the dam is ready to break and release— you pull away.

his eyes widen before snapping shut as his orgasm washes over him anyways. his cock springs out of your warmth and rests at the crack of your ass, and shoots. he’s soiling your gown in his nut, and you slip a hand between your thighs to cradle his twitching balls. his back arches at your touch, and somehow, shoots double his average load.

“aweee,” you coo condescendingly while fondling his privates, giving him both the best and worst time of his life, “‘s too bad i’m still upset with you.”

his ears ring pretentiously as his limbs fall limp— not his dick though. never his dick when you’re around— his breathing ragged and skin blotched a bright shade of pink. with an adorable giggle, you give your ass a little shake, and his dick bounces with you, shooting weaker spurts of cum. what a view.

but shit. . . he’s gonna be here for a while, isn’t he?

as long as it’s with you, he doesn’t mind. he’s ready for round two whenever you are.

sum calm, sum slight 🙂‍↔️. enjoy these crumbs while i fight for my life

[demonic0angel]

I've been playing Dredge lately and had a thought:

Danny, a small seaside town's best fisherman, and his babies, Eldritch Dani and Dan, who prefer to live underwater and come up to see their dad, who goes out fishing every day.

His nets are always full, and his boat never encounters any problems. He always steers true, never goes off course, and keeps finding old sunken treasure in his haul.

Everyone in town knows Mr. Nightingale, and his boat sailing by becomes a sort of good omen for the folk of nearby towns. He always leaves on his own, comes back with his hold full, and two small children, which weren't in the boat in the morning, go running into town with their father at their heels. Then they all go to the beach at sunset, the children dive under the last big waves, just before the sun goes down, and twin masses of glowing lights swim into the distance, waiting for their father to go meet them again the next day.

It's good like that. The town prospers, the fish are good and plentiful for just having one or two fishermen go out every day, and the little family gets to live in a community that won't question their origins.

It's when one hero (whichever, Bat, Lantern, Martian or Super, whatever you prefer) in particular gets shot out of the air and washes into Mr. Nightingale's nets that questions start being asked, most importantly, where is the children's mother, and did Mr. Nightingale get intimate with the personification of the sea, like in Ponyo?

Extra: I know the favorite of the fandom is to ship Danny and a Bat, or a Super or Flash, or even Sam and/or Tucker.

But what if, in his late teens, Danny went off to learn from other Ghosts, met the ghostly embodiment of the ocean? They spent a few years being intimate, enough that they hosted Dani and Dan's unstable cores until proper maturity was reached, got two darling little ones out of the deal, and whenever Danny sails into the horizon, he goes to meet his partner in their own element, spends his time with them and comes back with gifts from his spouse, nets full of fresh fish, and gets the children for the rest of the day, so they can grow up in both worlds. They meet up at night at the beach so the little ones can play on the sand while their parents spend a few hours cuddling and watching the sunset.

Ooh, this sounds so interesting! Something about Danny being in love with an oceanic being sounds so ethereal? Like space and the deep sea, y’know? Two mysterious, deep places with hidden depths that humans cannot fully reach.

Not only does this remind me of Ponyo, but it also reminds me of the Pirates of the Caribbean (in a way), where two lovers are separated by sea and land. On that note, we could make Danny marry Davy Jones.

I have nothing to add, but I do think it would be funny if Danny was a hermit with a mysterious past and heroes start coming to his little sea port to ask for old, sage hero advice.

[reasonsforhope]

"While COVID-19 lockdown will go down in history as a time devoid of in-person gatherings across the globe, in the United Kingdom, one quiet area on the coast of Suffolk became the hot spot for gray seals.

Orford Ness, a spit off of Great Britain that serves as a coastal nature reserve, has become the home of Suffolk’s first breeding colony of grey seals, according to the National Trust.

It is believed that these seals traveled from well-populated colonies in Norfolk and are now the first breeding colony to arrive in Suffolk — likely thanks to its remote location and very limited disturbance from humans.

The first 200 adult seals arrived at Orford Ness in 2021 when visitor access was significantly reduced in an extended period of COVID-19 closures. 

As it turns out, simply being left alone was all they needed to thrive.

Just last month, the first gray seal pup of the 2024 season was born, and this winter’s breeding season has already seen 80 pups on the scene, with many more expected. The site is now home to about 400 seals, up from about 200 just three years ago.

“We’re really happy to see new pups being born here at Orford Ness for the fourth consecutive year,” said Glen Pearce, Orford Ness’ property operations manager, in a statement.

“Despite the seals’ arrival in 2021, we held off talking about them until earlier this year because we wanted to give them the best chance of survival. Being able to talk about them this year, in real time, is a great opportunity to share more about the species and to help people understand how their own actions and behaviours can impact them.”

Human disturbance, which can include any human activity in the vicinity of the seals, is one of the biggest threats to the species, as it can cause them to change their natural behavior.

Gray seals are not listed as endangered and are protected under U.K. law, but they certainly face threats — mostly from humankind — including fishing nets, boat strikes, marine debris, pollution, or disturbance from fishermen and tourists.

Globally, the gray seal is also one of the rarest seal species, with about 50% of the world’s population dwelling in British and Irish waters. That makes this baby boom on Orford Ness that much more spectacular. 

“We’re really lucky,” Matt Wilson, the trust’s countryside manager for the Suffolk and Essex coast, told the BBC.

“They’ve formed a breakaway group, found this site and moved into the space we’ve got here. It's a real privilege to have them on this site and a responsibility, too, for the team here.”"

-via GoodGoodGood, December 11, 2024

[aintnoloveintheheatofthesun]

A love letter to the brilliant, talented, lying ass, cheating heifer...Pearline 🖤

There is so much to love about this character. She is played by Jayme Lawson so jot that down.

I couldn't sleep after watching this film. Not only did she cheat, sing and kill in the space of 2 hours 18 minutes, she stole my heart, too.

Let's break this down sequentially.

Name

'Pearline' connotes something rare and beautiful. There's two elements I love about this imagery.

One - she is a shining vision in a sea of flesh. This reflects her performance on stage, where she is a sight to behold in a sea of moving bodies.

Two - she is linked to local history. For decades, African Americans found employment and even autonomy fishing oysters along the Gulf Coast. These oysters would be shipped around the nation; creating opportunity for black fishermen, chefs and entrepreneurs. Her names anchors her to the South, to black ingenuity and resilience.

Furthermore! Her solo reflects the idea that Pearline is deeply committed to her people. While Sammie wrote an original song that he had never shared before, Pearline sings a lively song where everyone could join in.

When she thumps in time with the twins' violence, I feel like that emphasises her carpe diem nature. You cannot reach the valuable part of an oyster without exerting physical force. Before we reach the climax of the song and see Jayme Lawson in all her brilliance, a sinner in the back room takes several blows to the chest. Since this takes place during the Prohibition Era we can assume that she is no stranger to violence or crime.

Look

Damn, this woman is fine. Her skin was so well lit in the film. The night scenes when she was sweating on stage (and on that table) had her looking radiant. The beat was flawless and the hair worked!

Fits

The Clarksdale train station look will always be a favourite of mine. The white fishnet gloves, the floral earrings, the dark hat with flowers at the back and the floral print dress ate down. I'm just glad Sammie saw the vision.

Her light green, silk number in the juke joint made sense. We even got a new accessories  on stage, she can be seen in her wedding ring, different dangling earrings and a shiny cuff. The matching scarf was the perfect touch and them shoes!! Lord. They took 'Pale, Pale Moon' to the next level. Speaking of that that song - I am obsessed. It went triple platinum in my house last week. Brittany Howard and Ludwig Göransson devoured.

Love interest

That introduction after Pearline first watched Sammie play did it for me. There were fireworks between them!! Only to be followed up by

"You gonna sing?" "We'll see where the night takes us"

My goodness me. This woman really said I do what I want. She walked all the way to that juke joint, got her pussy ate, and sang like never before.

Queen shit.

Character arc

We first meet Mrs Pearline in the golden light of day. She looks calm and curious; eyeing up Preacher Boy. We then learn more about her tastes (in terms of sex, music, choreography and aromatics) before seeing her in action (killing these undead motherfuckers with Annie). She starts off reserved and mysterious and later proves herself to be brave and self-assured. Her dance style is sensual, animalistic and free. Clearly, this is not her first time performing for folks in a place like this; unlike Sammie. He has only ever sung at church and on Delta Slim's territory.

Speaking of Preacher Boy! She stands side by side with him, guarding the room where they are holding Stack. She calls Smoke evil to his face when he threatens to kill her over some garlic. She shoots at vampires and fights to the bitter end. My girl has ice in her veins.

Background

A massive thank you to professional dancer and cultural historian Melany Centeno for her breakdown video on YouTube explaining all the ancestors in THAT scene. She found that Ahmari Vaughn played Pearline's ancestor. This dancer was dressed in Hamar cultural wear while doing traditional Nilotic dances. The Acholi people are a Nilotic ethnic group found in Sudan and Northern Uganda. They have dances like Larakaraka and Bwola; which emphasise female agility and elegance.

Thoughts on the actress Jayme Lawson deserves every good thing in this world. I love this character that she has brought to life and I thoroughly appreciate how messy, beautiful and real Pearline is.

Favourite quotes by her

"Y'all are cousins? I thought you were a nice young man"

"What was in that jar?"

These quotes represent the 'fuck it, we ball mentality of Mrs Pearline. When she learns that Sammie is related to the twins, she doesn't run out of that place - she spends even more time with him. I love that for her. There's no doubt she has heard rumours of the Smoke Stack twins not-quite-legal employment history. Rather than seek the company of upstanding black folk in Clarksdale, she goes even deeper into this mess.

For the second quote, I love how Pearline is actively working to figure out how the hell they can survive. The criticisms of her character as a jezebel are not completely unfounded however this line changes things. She is a woman who feels trapped in her marriage, just like how Sammie feels trapped in his father's church.

While she is very comfortable in her sexuality; she is not defined by it. She gets head from Preacher Boy, with her wedding ring on. She performs with reckless abandon on stage to an adoring crowd.

Siren, sure. Jezebel? No.

Mrs Pearline is not a sexual object with no thoughts, no ambitions for herself. She understands that in 1932 Mississipi, the sale of alcohol is illegal and she sings in a Juke Joint. She learns that this man she has just met has notorious, gangster cousins and she continues to seek him out. She finds out that they are surrounded by cold blooded monsters and she picks up a stake, then ties it to a shotgun.

Her musical number is just as joyful and vibrant as Sammie's. Both of them are shown to be deeply rooted Southerners who love their people and the arts. They even stand up to Smoke in a similar manner. When Smoke tells Sammie to live a decent life, playing gospel music in the next town, Sammie refuses. Smoke holds a gun to his head. When Pearline hesitates to eat a clove of garlic, Smoke holds a gun to her head. Neither of them back down staring down the barrel of a gun.

I saw an excellent post that explores the narrative development between 'I Lied to You' and 'Pale, Pale Moon'. Sammie's song introduces us to his God given talent, while setting the scene for Remmick's self-serving, cult-like, pursuit. Pearline's song is where the violence and the music begin to converge; namely when Pearline gets to stomping on stage in sync to the twins kicking a man in the gambling room.

In this scene, Sammie is applauding his woman and the juke joint patrons are singing in a chorus, with her. This siren is at the centre of everything, in part because of her sex appeal, but mostly because of her passion and vocal abilities. The lyrics of the song even foreshadow the violent fates of these patrons. Sammie's music celebrates cultural contributions through past, present and future while Pearline's is a warning for the future.

Sammie is not the only griot in that place. The final credit scene features the gospel song 'Let it Shine' in which the lyrics directly contrast Pearline's song. Mrs Pearline gets turned and becomes vulnerable to the sun so when she sings

Don't let it shine x4

Oh Lord

We learn that she is Sammie's equal and opposite.

In conclusion, Pearline is much more than eye candy in Sinners (2025). She is Sammie's foil. She is a daring, formidable character who is about that action.

Favourite quote about her

'You so beautiful' - Sammie Moore 1932

No notes. Dude's right.

That whole scene had me like

[puripurin]

— "What the fuck." You started at the merman who wriggled around for space. His eyes looked at you in fear as he saw you, before a blush had spread across his face.

Up until 30 seconds ago, you had lived a normal life, well, except for the obscene amount of work you were stressed out with. So you hopped on the boat your parents had gifted you some years ago and sailed into the sea. The feel of the ocean breeze hitting your face was a familiar sensation to you.

This was because your parents were fishermen and loved to eat seafood, and naturally, you had gravitated towards seafood, but with prices these days and your never-ending workload, it didn't allow you to do anything without setting you back on your tight deadlines. Until today.

You had gotten a whole week of paid vacation because a coworker was threatening to bring them to court for a long list of harassment. So they gave the people who worked the most a one week paid vacation. Though, to her, it wasn't enough, so you're getting a paid vacation week while they are still going to get sued. Whatever, its their fault either way.

Anyways, how did you reel in a merman that shouldn't even exist? Frankly, you don't know either. You had accidentally started to daydream, which turned into you not realizing something was caught, so instinctively, you were able to reel in a merman.

"H-huuuumann?" His deep moss green eyes stared at up at you with interest whilst you nearly got blinded by the shimmering gleem of his scales that were scattered across his cheeks. He stopped his advancements towards you until it was difficult to hold up his neck to see you.

"Erm... sorry for catching you, I was daydreaming. I'll unhook the fish hook attached to you..." You apologized and went down to unhook him, only for him to pull down your pants and underwear down, making you fall on the bench below you and stuffing his face in your genitals.

"Hey! W-what are you doing?" You pushed his face away, to which he pouted to. He sat there for a while as you tried to push him off the boat, to no avail.

"I... Accceppt thhis marrriaage!" He excitedly said as he tugged on your pants to gently pull it off again, but you held on tightly to your pants.

"What marriage? I didn't propose to you?" You evaded from his pulling hands in confusion.

"Whennn youuu reeeeledd mmeee inn dummmyy!" He slurred his words once more. "Shtop! I waant too tasstte you firrst beeforrre you tassteeee mee!" He huffed before his nails turned into sharp claws that shreaded your pants, then pulled down your underwear again and happily stuffing his face and licking your crotch with his tongue that felt rough.

Once more, you tried to move away but only ended up moaning at the feeling. Your face was slightly hot as you looked away but was swiftly pulled back in for a kiss, tasting your own fluids.

"Ah... finally... now it's your turn, cutie pie. We have to go to my hometown to get married <3"

"WHAT!?!? Firstly, no! Secondly, i will drown!"

"... Who said you can say no? When you reeled me, it was akin to a marriage proposal. Also, that's why you suck my dick and kiss me <333"

"WHAT--"

Was supposed to be posted yesterday, but when i saved a portion of it, i didn't see that i was save so i went back in to edit it to see what's rong before i saved it and for a slpilt second i saw the rest of it before it saved, so i lost majority of my work.

So now it looks like tjis. Womp womp. I think tjis is an afab reader? But i tried to make it gn as possible but i wannted a weird ass mermaid culture where to speak another's language, you gotta eat them out/suck them off before kissing person to speak. At first i wanted him to just kiss in order to get the language js like starfire but i was like,, so what do i do with him tryna eat you out??,, then boom yeahh.

Also, yo quero voy en me casaaaaaa *cries pathetically* No me gusta Español :((((((( not proofread. L

Edit: i forgot about tags. Mb.

[fallen-gravity]

silly little headcanon: Maui doesn't need to sleep all that often because he's a demigod, but because he was born human he still occasionally feels tired and sleeps anyway. Sometimes while he sleeps, he actually finds it more comforting to shapeshift into an animal and sleep that way; he's a big guy who takes up a lot of space, so sometimes it feels nice to just. turn into a little animal and curl up in a little ball to sleep.

Sometimes when Moana loses track of him on a voyage, when she isn't sure she saw him take off and leave, she ends up finding him in the cargo hold, shapeshifted into a little pig, curled up and sleeping besides Pua. She'll never tell him she found him like that, of course. She needs her blackmail and cameras haven't been invented yet, and also it's so stupid cute to see this all powerful demigod just curled up into this tiny little thing snoring away.

He even finds himself doing it on Motunui, even though he'd definitely be offered a place to stay if he wanted one. Sometimes villagers will just happen across a "weird looking lizard" just baking out in the sun, fast asleep. Sometimes they see a massive hawk nesting on the roof of Moana's fale. Maybe sometimes he even shifts in his sleep to some animal that doesn't even make sense for where he touched down to rest. Maybe one day he wakes up to a huge crowd surrounding him on the beach, Moana included, because oops, he transformed into a whale in his sleep, and a bunch of poor confused fishermen thought he was some poor old regular whale that beached itself by mistake.

Something about using his powers at rest. For comfort, rather than for power and aggresion.

[imsojules]

Before the tide turns

pairing: jj maybank x fem!reader

tw: typical outerbanks things, alcohol, some drugs, bad fathers, nothing really deep in this one. maybe my crusty writing. english is not my first language!

a/n: Hello there dear reader! So this will be a zombie apocalypse series, but before the sky falls and 💩 hits the fan and everything goes to hell, let’s take a second to appreciate the life about to slip away.

word count: 6.7k

Any feedback is really appreciated! ♥

masterlist | next |

The Outer Banks were never supposed to be home.

You arrived there on a late spring day, with two suitcases and some box of books, your mom’s tired smile, and the hollow echo of a past you hadn’t looked back on in years. She got a nursing job at the local hospital, and you got whatever this was, sunset-drenched streets, salt-kissed air. It didn’t feel like a new beginning. It felt like a pause between endings.

Your dad left when you and your mom when you were just a kid. No note. No goodbye. Just the empty space in your life where his voice used to be. Your mom never cried in front of you. She just worked, and hoped one of the shifts would stitch the wound in your chest back together. You weren’t supposed to stay.

It was supposed to be your last free time before college, something stable and prestigious and far away, the kind of life your mom had clawed her way toward for you. She’d worked every night shift, picked up extra hours, filled out scholarship forms while you slept. She’d planned this.

You were supposed to be planning too. Packing your days with summer reading lists and admissions checklists. Your plan was to help your mom settle in and work during your gap year. Read ahead for university. Then go back to real life. To ambition.

That planning lasted about two weeks.

You found work at The Wreck, the local bar just outside of The Cut—part watering hole, part sanctuary for sunburnt fishermen and troublemakers. The place smelled like stale beer. The locals knew to tip in cash and stories.

It started with Kiara. She came into The Wreck during your first shift—sweaty from the sun, still in her wetsuit, dripping water onto the floor.

“You new?” she asked, hopping up on a barstool and squinting at your name tag.

You nodded. “You’re...very wet.”

“Thanks,” she deadpanned. “Well, yeah. I figured I’d go for the drowned rat look tonight. Really works for the vibe, don’t you think?”

You liked her immediately. After your first shift ended she looked at you “Okay,” she said. “Serious question. What’s your escape plan?”

You blinked. “What?”

“You’ve got that ‘I’m just passing through’ vibe,” Kiara said. “So. What’s the plan? College? Bigger city? Secret identity?”

You smiled faintly. “Something like that. My mom got the hospital job here. She wants me starting school the next fall.”

“You want that?”

You paused. “I want her to stop worrying.”

She looked at you for a beat, like she was sizing you up. Then she nodded, arms crossed. “That’s fair.”

The next night, she came back with new people to introduce you to. Pope, John B and Sarah. They ordered fried shrimp, bickered over who owed who gas money this time, and invited you to a bonfire “just to break up the cosmic boredom of existence.”

Then the third night on the job, you met him. JJ Maybank.

He burst through the door like a hurricane in human form with his warm blonde hair, bright blue eyes, and a grin so crooked it could knock the breath out of you. Loud, and already talking before he even reached the bar.

“New girl,” he said, like it was a nickname. “Fun fact,” he announced, eyes locked on the rum bottle in your hand. “That’s the same kind Blackbeard drank the night before he buried treasure right off this coast.”

You arched a skeptical brow. “Seriously?”

“Okay,” he said, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Maybe not. But c’mon, you don’t move to the Outer Banks and not believe in pirate ghosts and buried treasure. It’s basically a local requirement.”

You fought the grin tugging at your lips. “You’re full of it.”

“Full of charm,” he corrected, tapping the counter with two fingers. “And definitely not full of pirate rum. Yet.”

He tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing just a little. “I don’t think I caught your name.” You hesitated for a second, suddenly self-aware, but something about his easy confidence made it feel okay to say it.

“It’s Y/N,” you said, the words feeling a little too small under the weight of his gaze.

He smiled, the grin wide and unrestrained. “I’m JJ.”

—

The first time you sat with all of them outside of work, it wasn’t planned.

You’d just finished your shift at The Wreck when Kie and Sarah waved you over. JJ was already there with his feet up on the table, next to his food, shirt sun-damp and sticking to his back. John B was mid-rant about something to do with boat engines, and Pope was counting coins from the tip jar like it was serious math.

“Sit,” Kie grinned. “We’re initiating you.”

“Into what, exactly?” you asked, arching a brow. JJ leaned back in his chair, looking way too pleased with himself. “The glorious cult of bad decisions and questionable morals.”

“Also known as the Pogues,” Pope clarified.

JJ tossed a fry at him. “You make it sound lame. Watch for the branding dude.”

Sarah looked at you. “If you can handle a Friday night in The Cut, you officially earn local status.”

And just like that, you stayed.

JJ leaned back, balancing precariously on the edge of the picnic table like a raccoon contemplating its life choices. “So new girl… Kiara told me that you have a board. You surf or just own that for the aesthetic?”

“I surf,” you said confidently. “In the same way a cat swims. Reluctantly. With a lot of splashing and some crying.”

He snorted. “So, you’ve nearly drowned in front of hot people. Relatable.”

“Honestly, it builds character. It’s very performance art.”

He pointed a fry at you like it was a mic. “The ocean’s never seen such raw talent.”

“It cried salty tears,” you said. “We bonded.”

He cackled. “Stick with me, new one. I’ll show you how to look cool while making terrible life decisions.”

You raised your cup in a toast. “Can’t wait to disappoint my mom with style.” JJ clinked his beer can against yours. “That’s the spirit.”

Kiara laughed behind you. “She’s one night in and already talking like JJ. This is how it starts.”

“How what starts?” you asked, raising a brow.

Pope looked up from his coin mountain. “Corruption. First it’s sarcasm. Next thing you know, you're trespassing on a golf course at 2 a.m. wearing a traffic cone as a hat.”

Then John B pointed at you. “And you will think it’s a good idea at the time.”

JJ grinned, full of charm. “In my defense, the traffic cone was very flattering.”

“Only because you wore it with no pants,” Pope muttered.

“Art demands sacrifice” JJ said solemnly.

You blinked. “Is this a group of friends or an elaborate cry for help?”

“Yes,” they all answered at once.

You couldn’t help but laugh. JJ leaned in just a little, elbows on knees, gaze too steady for how unserious he looked. “You laugh now, but wait until we make you break into an abandoned lighthouse or something.”

“Oh good,” you said dryly. “I've always wanted tetanus and a criminal record.”

Kie nudged you with her shoulder. “You’ll fit right in.”

JJ pointed at you again. “I like her. She’s got the right ratio.”

“You have a ratio?” you asked.

“Scientific method, babe. You gotta be just scared enough to know it’s dumb, but dumb enough to do it anyway.”

You tilted your head. “And how do you rate?”

He grinned, wide and reckless. “Overqualified.”

“You live at dangerously overqualified.” John B added.

JJ leaned back again, arms spread out along the bench like he was claiming the whole night. “What can I say? I’m a man of many talents.”

You couldn’t stop smiling. These people were chaos. Loud, messy, sunburnt chaos.

Kie handed you the last fry. “You're one of us now. No take-backs.”

You took it, crunching it between your teeth like a solemn oath. “Guess I better start practicing my mug shot face.”

JJ waggled his brows. “Don’t worry. I’ve got a whole portfolio.”

“Of mug shots?” you asked, choking on laughter.

“Of facial expressions. The mug shots are just… bonus content.”

You had the next weekend off. You planned a chill, relaxing Saturday, but when that morning JJ showed up outside your place leaning out the window of the Twinkie—John B’s car—, yelling like a lunatic. “SURF’S UP, BABY!”

You blinked at him, bleary-eyed, clutching your coffee like it was life support. “JJ, it’s 7 a.m.”

“Exactly. Prime wave real estate. Let’s go, Sharkbait.”

After getting ready, you climbed into the van, your board knocking into everything in its path, you found Kiara already in the backseat, stuffing snacks into her bag. Pope sat up front with headphones in, clearly regretting his life choices, and John B was behind the wheel, sunglasses on and hair still damp from a lazy hose down.

The beach was still misty when you pulled up, sunlight breaking through in lazy streaks. JJ jumped out first, hauling his board over his shoulder like he was starring in his own indie surf documentary.

You dragged your board to the sand, staring at the waves like they were out to get you.

“Alright, rookie,” JJ said, spinning his board in the sand with dramatic flair. “Time to see if that board’s just for Instagram.”

John B snorted. “Don’t let him get to you.”

You paddled out with them, nervous, already soaked to your ears. Pope wiped out first, his limbs flailing so violently he looked like he was trying to fly. John B caught a decent wave and immediately shouted, “Did you SEE that?” like he’d just solved world peace. Kiara, naturally, made it look effortless.

Then it was your turn. JJ floated nearby, watching like a lifeguard with a flair for mockery. “Okay, new girl. This is your moment. Make Poseidon proud.”

You paddled. You stood. You flailed. You crashed.

When you surfaced, JJ was cracking up. “Majestic. Ten out of ten. Graceful as a flying possum.”

You flipped him off, laughing, salt water pouring out of your nose. “You’re lucky I don’t launch this board at your smug face.”

But the second time? You stood longer. Rode it almost all the way in. When you fell, you were smiling.

Later, the five of you collapsed on towels and boards, sun drunk and dripping wet, munching chips, JJ tossed you a sweatshirt that smelled like him and sunscreen.

“You’re not bad,” he admitted, nudging your foot with his.

“Careful,” you warned, pulling the hoodie tighter. “That almost sounded like praise.”

He grinned, eyes squinting in the sun. “You’re officially one of us now.”

And as the wind ruffled the beach, you realized something: You’d never belonged anywhere like this before.

The next night you spent with them, they built a bonfire like it was a ritual—driftwood, lighter fluid, and Pope’s very strict “no glass near the fire” rule that everyone immediately ignored.

John B found a busted speaker in the Chateau and hooked it up to his phone with duct tape and a prayer. The sound was terrible, but it didn’t matter.

JJ handed you a drink without asking what you wanted. “I made it for you,” he said proudly. “It’s called the Sunset Surprise.”

You sniffed it. “JJ, this is just rum and SunnyD.”

“Yeah. The surprise is how good it is.”

Later, after some too much of that drink, you ended up tangled in a hammock with Kie and Sarah, passing a bag of marshmallows between you while JJ and John B tried to one-up each other on who had the worst sunburn.

“Remember when you said you weren’t staying?” Kie whispered to you, grinning.

“I’m still not.” you said.

You’d never actually been inside the Chateau before, just heard the legends. Mismatched furniture, questionable wiring, and a general aura of lived in disaster. So when JJ waved you in that evening like you’d been coming over for years, you stepped through the door and into the eye of the hurricane.

Somehow, one visit turned into a dozen. Before you even noticed, the Chateau became your second home, blaring music, sandy floors, and all.

The first night you crashed there, you fell asleep on the lumpy couch with a scratchy blanket and JJ snoring on the other side of the room. You woke up to the unmistakable smell of something burning. And your skull pulsing like a tiny, furious drummer had moved in behind your eyes.

The couch beneath you creaked as you shifted, your cheek peeling off the sticky cushion fabric. Someone had draped a beach towel over you like a blanket. Your mouth tasted like JJ’s surprise drink and regret.

Groaning, you sat up, and immediately regretted it.

Your surroundings came into focus slowly: Pope curled up on the floor using a backpack as a pillow, Kie sprawled upside down in the battered armchair, and John B, shirtless, lying half off his hammock like he’d lost a battle with gravity sometime in the night.

The Chateau was chaos and comfort all at once, half sunk in sand and too bright for your aching eyes.

JJ walked in from the kitchen, flipping something on the stove, grinning when he caught you squinting at him like the morning lightness had declared war on your eyeballs.

“Well, well, well,” he drawled, barefoot and smug. “Sleeping Beauty lives.”

You glared. “Why are you yelling?”

He snorted and walked over, pressing a bottle of water into your hands, then some painkillers into your palm like he’d done it a dozen times before.

“My gut instincts told me to keep you alive,” he said, crouching in front of you. “Also, you puked off the back porch and yelled at a mailbox.”

Your groan turned into a muffled scream behind the towel. “Please stop.” Your face burned hotter than the morning sun. “I’m never drinking again.”

“Lies,” Pope muttered from the floor.

JJ reached out, brushing a piece of sand-dusted hair from your forehead with extreme gentleness. “You good?”

The joke fell from his face then, just for a second. His blue eyes searched yours like he wasn’t asking about the hangover at all. Like he was asking if you felt okay here—with them. With him.

You nodded, throat thick. “Yeah. Weirdly good.”

“You can crash here whenever,” he said, standing and tossing you a granola bar. “Just… maybe aim away from the porch next time.”

You threw the granola bar at his head. He ducked and laughed, already turning back toward the stove, like this was just normal now—you waking up here, part of the mess.

Part of them.

After that, you liked to spend almost all of your free time at that house. One of your day off you were next to JJ who was sitting on the porch railing with a damp t-shirt slung over his shoulder, a laundry basket at his feet and his hair still wet from a surf. You were sitting on the steps, sorting socks with a kind of focused frustration that made him smirk every time you muttered about losing pairs to the “sock void.”

“You know,” JJ said, nudging your foot with his. “You don’t have to color code them.”

“It’s not color-coding,” you muttered. “It’s... sock logic.”

He snorted. “You sound like Pope.”

“Hey!”

He leaned down, plucked a sock from the pile, and tossed it behind him like a basketball. “Boom. Freedom.”

“You’re such a pain in the ass.”

“You’re in denial.”

You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling. The late afternoon sun dipped behind the trees, throwing shadows across the porch. Somewhere inside, John B was yelling at the TV about a busted DVD player, and Kiara was digging through the fridge for snacks she swore she didn’t bring.

JJ glanced down at you, softer now.

“You didn’t have to come by, you know.”

You shrugged. “You texted me you were doing laundry. I assumed you needed supervision.”

“Fair.”

A beat passed. The kind of quiet that was only awkward if you didn’t want it to mean something.

He looked at you again. Really looked. “You always do that.”

You glanced up. “Do what?”

“Show up.”

The words settled between you like something heavier than air. You didn’t answer right away just looked at him, really looked back. At the bruise fading along his ribs. At the way his hands never stayed still. At the hope that flickered behind all the sarcasm when he looked your way.

“I like being here,” you said finally.

He didn’t say anything at first, just nodded. Then, quieter: “Yeah. Me too.”

He sat beside you, knees bumping, arms brushing — both of you pretending it didn’t matter. Both of you wishing the moment would stretch just a little longer.

That same night was technically a “movie night,” but John B had passed out on the couch, Pope never showed, and JJ had offered you the spare mattress in the back like it wasn’t a big deal. The storm had rolled in just after sunset.

You were half asleep when you heard the shouting.

Not JJ.

His dad. You knew damn well he was abusive. Kiara told you about him when you two walked together home after work. You’d seen JJ’s  bruises. The ones on his ribs, the ones on his back. The ones he tried to cover up, the ones he didn’t talk about. You knew what his dad was capable of. The way the older man’s anger could tear JJ down, piece by piece. You sat up fast. The mattress was thin and cold, your phone lighting up with a single message: “Stay in the room. Please.”

You didn’t.

By the time you made it down the hall, JJ was in the kitchen, blocking the door with his body. His dad stood outside, soaked from the rain, reeking of whiskey and rage.

“Don’t be a little bitch, JJ,” he slurred. “Let me the hell in—”

“You’re not doing this again.” JJ snapped, voice low but tight, like he was holding everything together by one breath. “You think you’re some tough guy now?” his dad named Luke, if you are remember correctly, snarled, leaning harder against the door. “Living in your little clubhouse like a man? You’re still just some screw-up kid who needs his—”

“Go home,” JJ said, and it wasn’t loud, but it cut. You saw his hands shaking.

The door slammed shut a second later, just narrowly missing JJ’s fingers. He stood there, chest heaving, head bowed like it physically hurt to stay upright.

“JJ...” you said softly.

He didn’t look at you. Just braced his hands on the kitchen counter, knuckles white.

You reached out gently, fingers brushing his arm. “Can I—?”

He nodded once.

You wrapped your arms around him from behind. Slowly. Carefully. His back was warm, tense as steel cable, but when you pressed your cheek to his shoulder, you felt him exhale. His head dropped forward, curls wet from rain or sweat or maybe both.

“I hate him,” JJ whispered. “I hate that I still care what he says. I hate that I can’t stop him from getting in my head.”

You didn’t speak. Just held tighter.

“Hey,” you murmured, pulling back just enough to make him face you. His eyes were red-rimmed, jaw clenched, but he didn’t pull away “Whatever he is, you’re the opposite.” JJ’s eyes searched yours, as if he wanted to believe it but didn’t know how. You reached up and touched his face—fingertips soft at his jaw. “He doesn’t get to define you. Not now. Not ever.” JJ leaned into you like he was starved for warmth.

On a sweltering July afternoon, the heat clung to your skin, hot sand burning beneath your toes, the sky above a washed-out blue with the promise of stars to come. The Pogues had built a bonfire near the dunes—Kiara brought a Bluetooth speaker, John B smuggled snacks, Pope came late, and JJ was already tipsy when you arrived. You found him sitting on a log, poking the fire with a stick like it owed him money.

“Late,” he said without looking at you.

You smirked. “You missed me.”

He glanced up. “Always.”

You settled beside him. The fire crackled. The ocean whispered behind you. For a moment, it felt like the whole island had stopped spinning.

And then, voices. Loud, slurred, Kook voices.

You turned.

Rafe Cameron, in all his smug, sunburned glory, was striding toward the fire like he owned the shoreline. Two of his cronies followed behind him grinning, emboldened. He wasn’t drunk. He was worse. He was in one of those moods. You’d seen this dance before. Kooks with their collars popped and pockets lined, swaggering into places like they were doing everyone a favor. And Pogues? Tended bars, cleaned up their messes, swallowed insults with clenched jaws because rent didn’t pay itself.

At The Wreck, it was always the same story: Kooks sitting too close, speaking too loud, tipping too little. Entitled. The kind of people who looked at you like you were wallpaper just there to blend into the background unless they needed something.

“Well, well,” Rafe said, raising a beer. “Look who’s slumming it with the pogues tonight.”

You stood, not even sure why. Maybe just on instinct. JJ stood too. You felt the heat of him at your back.

Rafe’s eyes slid to you, then back to JJ.

“She your latest stray, Maybank?”

JJ didn’t flinch. “You lost?”

“Just enjoying the public beach.” Rafe said, smiling like a shark.

Kie was beside you, arms crossed tight. “Rafe, no one wants you here.”

“Relax,” he said, but his eyes were still on you. “She doesn’t look like she minds. You from out of town, sweetheart? Didn’t think they let tourists run with the trash.”

You didn’t even have time to blink before JJ moved.

It wasn’t a swing—not yet. Just a step forward. Fast and controlled. His jaw was clenched, fists at his sides, not raised but the intent was there.

“Back off.” JJ said, voice low.

Rafe laughed, but it wasn’t amused. “Didn’t know you got a guard dog.”

“Keep talking,” JJ said, “see how fast I make you eat sand.”

For a second, no one moved. The fire popped.

Then Pope was there, wedging himself between them. “Walk away, JJ.”

“Not until he does,” JJ hissed.

Rafe raised both hands in mock surrender and started to backpedal “Have fun, scumbags.”

When he was gone, JJ finally exhaled like he’d been holding his breath since the second Rafe showed up. He didn’t look at you right away.

“Jay...” you started.

You didn’t know what to say, so you just stepped a little closer. Close enough to feel the heat coming off of him part firelight, part JJ.

He noticed. But he didn’t move away.

—

There was a kind of rhythm to it, the way you danced around each other without ever touching the center. Like magnets flipping polar at the last second, always close enough to feel the pull, never close enough to give in.

Sarah caught on first.

She cornered you at the surf shop while you were stocking shelves. “So, you and JJ…”

“There’s no me and JJ,” you said too quickly.

Sarah raised a perfectly shaped brow. “That’s cute. He talks about you like you hung the stars or something. Like, annoying, but cute.”

Kiara joined in later, handing you a beer and casually asking, “So when are you going to admit you’re in love with him?”

You choked. “I’m not—he hasn’t—nothing’s happening.”

She just smirked. “Yeah, yeah okay.”

JJ was always there. Leaning on the bar when your shift ended, talking too loud, laughing too easily. He stole fries from your plate and let you steal sips from his beer. He called you “trouble” with a smirk like he was begging for you to prove him right.

And you were just as bad.

You found reasons to text him at 2 a.m., knowing he’d answer. Laughed a little louder at his dumbest jokes. Let your knees bump his on the couch and never moved away. You wore his hoodie home once and claimed it was accidental. He never asked for it back.

Your mom washed it, folded it neatly, and said nothing. Just gave you a look. The kind that said: I know exactly what this is, and we are not talking about it right now.

She liked JJ. Not that she’d admit it first. But you saw the way her expression softened when he called her “ma’am,” or offered to carry groceries, or he said to her “You made your daughter this cool alone? That should be illegal.” He tried to be a perfect gentleman around her, straightened posture, yes ma’ams, even opened the car door once. He even complimented her pasta like it was five-star cuisine.

She liked him. But she didn’t trust that she liked him.

“He’s got manners,” she said once, setting a pot on the stove. “But so do cult leaders.”

Still, she’d slide him an extra helping at dinner without blinking. Pack leftovers “just in case your friend’s hungry.” She saw the good in him. Just didn’t want you rearranging your whole future around it.

Some nights, when the wind rattled your windows and the ocean howled in the distance, you lay awake wondering how close was too close. How long until one of you cracked.

You caught him looking sometimes. Not in that passing way guys look at girls. Not like a glance. Like he was memorizing you.

Like he was trying to figure out if this whatever this was, could be real.

And he caught you, too. Watching him light a joint, shirtless in the Chateau’s golden hour glow. Watching the way his jaw flexed when he was thinking too hard. Watching him watch you.

You talked about everything. The kind of stuff most people never dared to say out loud. Bad dads. Broken systems. How life sometimes felt like a house of cards, like one gust and it’d all go down.

But you never talked about the way your heart beat faster when his hand brushed yours. Or how he always pulled you in closer than necessary during movie nights. Or the way you always waited for him to say something first.

And then, one night, he finally did.

You’d been watching some old movie John B had lying around at the Chateau. Midway through a scene involving an axe, a fog machine, and the world’s worst scream queen, JJ shifted. Without warning, he dropped his head into your lap, exhaling sharply like gravity had just won. You paused, looking down, half-expecting him to make some smartass comment.

Instead, he blinked up at you, eyes glassy but honest in that way drunk people sometimes get like all their edges had gone soft.

“You know I like you a lot, right?”

The words hit like a pebble through a window. Quiet, sharp, and irreversible.

You froze, heart stalling mid-beat. “JJ… you’re drunk.”

He blinked again. “Yeah I am.  And I’m also getting fall in love with you.”

No smirk. No wink. Just soft certainty, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

You didn’t know what to do with it, so you did what you could. You gently untangled yourself, stood up ignoring the way he pouted, and fetched a glass of water, and two painkillers. When you came back, he was still on the couch, now sprawled dramatically like a fallen prince.

“Drink this please,” you said, nudging the glass into his hand.

He obeyed, eyes not leaving yours.

Then you helped him up—he leaned heavier than he needed to, one arm slung lazily over your shoulder—and guided him to the bedroom, muttering sleepy nonsense the whole way. You pulled the covers up to his chest, smoothed his hair back, and before you could think too hard, kissed his forehead.

He was out cold two minutes later.

The next morning, you found him on the porch one hand shielding his eyes like the sun had personally wronged him. John B was beside him, sipping coffee and looking far too chipper for someone who lived off instant ramen.

“She probably thinks I was just wasted,” JJ muttered, voice rough, temple cradled in his palm. “I fucked up.”

He didn’t see you at first. You stood there in the doorway for a beat, watching him squint into the daylight like it held answers. The words had come out messy, sure. But the truth in them hadn’t felt drunk.

You didn’t hesitate after that. You stepped outside, the screen door creaking just enough to give you away. JJ flinched like he’d been caught doing something illegal. John B glanced between the two of you, instantly clocked the energy, and bless him, he quickly stood up.

“I’m gonna go… check on the water heater,” he mumbled, already backing away even though the Chateau hadn’t had hot water in weeks.

JJ didn’t look at you right away. He scrubbed a hand over his face, wincing at the effort. “So… about last night,” he said, voice rough like gravel. “Just for the record, I was absolutely trashed.”

“I noticed.”

He laughed once—short, nervous. “Cool. So we can just pretend I was talking to a tree or, like, a large bird and keep this friendship alive.”

You sat beside him on the step, close enough to feel the heat radiating off his skin.

“Thing is,” you said, “you were drunk. But you weren’t lying.”

JJ finally turned to look at you, blue eyes bloodshot and uncertain. He looked like a boy halfway between wanting to run and wanting to believe he hadn’t ruined everything.

“And that’s the problem?” he asked, voice quieter now.

You shook your head slowly. “No. That’s the part that makes it easy.”

His brows furrowed. “Wait… are we still using metaphors or?”

You kissed him.

It was gentle, cautious like you were both trying to memorize something fragile. He froze for a split second, then kissed you back, sun-warm hands coming up to cradle your jaw like he couldn’t believe you were real.

When you finally pulled away, he looked dazed, but smiling.

“I knew you liked me,” he whispered.

“You said you are in love with me,” you reminded him.

JJ leaned back a little, grinning now, like gravity couldn’t touch him. “Yeah, well. I was also drunk. I’m sober now, and I still do. So… just putting that out there.”

You rolled your eyes, but couldn’t stop smiling. “You’re such a menace.”

“And you’re doomed,” he said brightly. “You kissed me. That’s a lifetime contract.”

Later that afternoon, the rest of the Pogues trickled in like seagulls smelling fries. You and JJ were still on the porch, now tangled up on the hammock, his legs practically hanging off one side, your head on his shoulder, the laziest smiles on both your faces.

Kiara stepped out first, paused mid-step, and blinked. “Okay…what the hell is this?” she asked, already pulling out her phone like she was documenting a cryptid sighting.

You squinted at her through the hammock netting. “Do I at least look cute?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” Kie muttered, snapping a photo. “Ugh, finally. I'm putting this on the Pogue group chat.”

JJ grinned, not even bothering to move. “This, my friend, is a rare sighting. Handle with care.” 

 “Since when?” Pope asked, squinting like he was trying to solve a crime scene.

JJ stretched, yawned dramatically. “Since always. You guys just have no observational skills.” John B emerged from the kitchen with a bag of chips and the look of someone extremely over it. “He confessed last night while slurring into her lap. It was kinda romantic tho.”

Pope looked at you with raised eyebrows. You responded to the question he never actually said. “I made peace with my fate.”

“You’re a brave one.” Pope said.

Kiara groaned, flopping onto the porch swing. “This is gonna be great.”

“You love it,” JJ said, throwing a chip at her. “You all do. Admit it.”

John B sighed. “Can we at least make a rule that if you two start making out, we get a five-minute warning to evacuate?”

“No promises,” JJ said, slinging an arm around you. “We’re spontaneous like that.” And then he pulled you into a warm hug, his breath brushing your ear as he whispered, “So… when do I get to see you again?”

You grinned, pretending to think. “Hmm, let me check my very full and important schedule...”

“Oh no,” he whispered dramatically. “Am I being penciled in?”

“Lucky for you,” you said, pulling back just enough to look at him, “next Friday’s wide open.”

He lit up. “Next Friday it is.”

On your first “real” date JJ didn’t tell you where you were going. He just showed up in front of your and your mom’s place at golden hour, wearing that cocky grin that made your heart do gymnastics.

"Is that... cologne?" you asked, sniffing the air.

"It’s scented confidence," he said, revving the boat engine dramatically.

You blinked. "We’re going on a boat ride?"

“Hell yeah.” he confirmed, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Very poetic. Very Nicholas Sparks.”

You hopped in, grinning. “Is this what romance looks like in The Cut?”

“Buckle up, baby. We’re about possibly violate some maritime law.”

The boat was old, and a little squeaky every time JJ shifted gears but it glided like freedom. The water sparkled as the sun dipped lower, turning the sky into melted orange sherbet.

“You pull this move with all your dates?” you asked, legs dangling over the side of the boat.

JJ glanced over with a grin. “Only the ones I actually want to impress.”

“Lucky me.”

“Extremely,” he said, kicking at the water with the heel of his boot. “Most girls freak out when I joke about being stranded at sea.”

You gave him a look.

He shrugged, way too relaxed. “Guess we’ll find out when the gas light comes on.”

“JJ.”

“Kidding.” He leaned closer, voice low. “Probably.”

Eventually, he anchored near a quiet inlet. The boat rocked gently beneath you as JJ pulled out a slightly crumpled brown bag. Inside? Two sandwiches, a bottle of coke, and a pack of twizzlers.

“It’s giving gourmet” you said.

“I forgot the forks for our gourmet feast,” he replied solemnly. “but I have a surprise.”

He reached into the boat’s cooler and pulled out a single sparkler, the kind you get on the Fourth of July.

“This was supposed to be for later,” he said, lighting it with a victorious flick of a lighter. “But I’m impatient.”

You watched the sparkler fizzle between you, lighting his face in bursts of starlight. He looked so soft and full of mischief.

“I think this counts as the weirdest first date I’ve ever been on,” you said.

“But like... in a good way?” he asked, leaning a little closer.

You smiled. “In the best way.”

And when he kissed you tasting like coke and sunshine and it felt less like a beginning and more like a promise you’d already been living.

—

Exactly one year later after he kissed you on that boat, you fumbled with your new home’s keys, the metal biting into your palm like it could sense your nerves. With a sigh, you dropped them onto the counter, letting the sound of their clink echo.

Your mom’s voice echoed in the back of your mind. She’d given you a deadline, keep planning your future, stick to your academic goals, and she’d be more than happy to help you and JJ out with the rent. But she didn’t exactly approve of your life choices. But your mom, in her own strict way, always tried to take care of you, even if it didn’t always feel that way.

Her disapproval had hung heavy in the air when you’d told her. But she’d softened when you promised you’d keep pursuing your university plan, her way of showing she still cared, still expected something from you. So, you did. You planned, you organized. You tried to keep your life from spiraling in the chaos.

The new place was nothing special, just a two bedroom above an old dive shop in Kill Devil Hills with creaky floors, sea stained windows, and ceilings the color of forgotten cigarettes. You and JJ had only moved in a few days ago, but it already smelled like him. Sand, sunscreen, weed, and whatever cheap body wash he swore by.

You lay sprawled out on the floor in the living room, your head tilted just enough to brush against JJ’s. The only furniture in the room was a secondhand couch you hadn’t bothered to unwrap yet and a floor lamp that leaned like it was half-drunk. Sunlight leaked through warped blinds, casting stripes across the wooden floor. Dust hung in the air like pollen.

You sneezed for the third time.

JJ snorted out a laugh. “You allergic to happiness or just our janky-ass apartment?”

You groaned and wiped your nose with your sleeve. “I told you I should’ve dusted yesterday.”

JJ rolled onto his side, propping himself up on an elbow. “I got it. I’ll do it now.”

“No,” you said, grabbing his arm and dragging him back down beside you. “You need a break. You carried all of the boxes up those stairs.”

He made a dramatic groaning noise. “They weighed a million pounds. I broke a sweat.”

“Drama queen.”

He grinned. That lopsided, JJ special smug and inexplicably soft.

You linked your fingers through his. He didn’t hesitate. His hand was warm and always a little rough, like he’d been living three lives at once. He brushed your thumb with his. Then, out of nowhere, he said:

“I’m so happy.”

You blinked at him, surprised. JJ wasn’t shy, but he didn’t usually say things like that, not without a joke stitched to the end. This wasn’t one of those moments. His voice was clear, steady. Like he needed you to hear it.

“I am too,” you murmured, tightening your grip. “I didn’t think I could feel like this again.”

JJ didn’t answer at first. He was looking at you like he’d never seen you before. Like you were some rare artifact dug out of the sand, something he was scared to touch too hard in case it disappeared.

“What?” you asked, voice hushed.

He raised a hand to your cheek, fingertips featherlight. The pads of his fingers traced the shape of you, reverent. His touch wasn’t demanding, just curious.

Then he smiled. “I don’t get how I got this lucky.”

You kissed him. It was a very sweet quick and warm and close mouthed. Then you whispered, “I’m happier.”

His eyes narrowed in mock offense. “Liar.”

“Swear it.”

“No way. I’m like… glowing. I’m radiating happiness. You’re catching my happy.”

The afternoon sun dipped lower, washing the apartment in a warm orange haze. It hit JJ’s hair just right, turning it to gold. He looked like summer as a person.

“I’m still happier” you teased.

He rolled over until he was half on top of you, chest pressing into yours. “Then prove it.”

“How?”

“Let me hold you for like, ever.”

You grinned. “JJ…”

But you let him pull you in, let him stretch himself across you like a blanket, tucking his face into your neck. His weight grounded you. His arms were secure, gentle but insistent. He always held you like he was afraid the universe might snatch you away.

“You good?” you asked softly, hand stroking through his hair.

“I am now,” he mumbled. “Just… don’t move yet.”

You didn’t. Not even when your back started to ache or your nose twitched from dust.

The world outside didn’t feel real that night. Just you and JJ, your hearts beating in the same rhythm, in a home that smelled like freedom.

A home that wouldn't last forever.

But neither of you were thinking about that yet.

[creativepromptsforwriting]

Spooktober Prompts Masterlist 2023

"They are calling us…" "Don't listen to them. Do you hear me? Don't listen to a word they promise you!"

The cameras show five people enter an elevator, but only four of them leaving it. Those four never remembered a fifth passenger.

"Aww, are you so afraid of the dark that you need me to hold your hand?" "I'm not holding your hand." "Then whose..."

At first, they believe it to be a bad joke, but when more and more graves of people who haven't died yet appear in the graveyard, they start to panic.

The camera she bought at a flea market already has photos on it. Since the people are wearing clothes from centuries ago, they believe them to be from a play. But they soon realize that those photos and events were real.

A child actress turned cult leader feels her power slipping and she needs to gain control over her following again.

When they started building the new school, they had expected to maybe find unexploded WWII bombs, but what they found instead was nothing they could have expected.

She heard footsteps behind her coming closer, but when she turned around, holding her breath, she could only see the dark and empty alley.

"Why did you choose the cemetary as our meeting place for tonight?" "Because only the dead can keep our secrets."

Going to your own funeral and see who would cry - it sounded almost fun. If it wasn’t for the fact that they could hear and see everything, but could not make a sound to stop them from closing up the grave around them.

A medium without a voice of her own, can only speak when a ghost speaks through her.

They had always felt that shadows seemed to beckon to them. But this time, when the shadows beckoned, they wore a sinister grin. (Submitted by: tumblebumblebee-63)

"I'm not haunting a filthy public bathroom, I'm a ghost with class."

A fun survival game TV show on a remote island becomes a reality when one contestant after the other turns up brutally killed. Right in front of hundreds of cameras and millions of watchful eyes.

Waking up to a child that you've never seen before, but that everyone assures you is your own that you've raised for years, is terrifying.

"Did you see that?" "Did I see what?" "That man... he touched the leaves and they immediately blackened and fell off. Please, let us go back before he sees us!" "Too late." The man in the dark cloak suddenly stood right in front of them and slowly reached out his hands to them.

What started as a fun midnight activity suddenly turned into one of them missing and the others running for their lives, trying to escape freaking zombies.

He always dreamed about being in a kdrama. He didn't imagine it to have a horror side plotline that feels way too real.

They said that when you die, you return to earth as your one true self. Why then, when he opened his eyes after being killed, were his teeth long and he hungered for blood? (Submitted by: ouilah)

She didn't think it would come to this point. She felt the cold stone of the gravestone in her back and before her the red glowing eyes of the creature crept slowly closer.

There are perks of being a ghost. Walking through walls was fun. Or haunting annoying people. But nothing was quite as nice as being able to just fade out of a conversation that you didn’t want to be a part of.

"I dare you! Come on, stop being a coward. There is no such thing as ghosts."

Someone wakes up to a text saying 'It's your lucky day!' and it turns out to be the worst day ever.

A family of vampires that lives unidentified in human communities, becomes paranoid and starts to believe all their neighbors are also supernatural creatures.

There are stories and superstitions abound about the seaside bluffs, but that's to be expected in a town of fishermen. One night, from the bluffs' direction, you hear someone singing, softly. (Submitted by: someoneoffthestreet)

Astronauts coming back to earth keep talking about hearing songs from outside the space shuttle. What they don't say, is that those songs followed them home.

Someone stared at her through the window. She had always felt safe in her own home, shutting out the scary, real world. But a window is just glass, and glass… oh it breaks so, so easily…

A plane disappears from the radar and then reappears multiple hours later at the exact same location in the middle of the ocean with no place to land and not enough fuel to just fly around for hours.

"We shouldn't enter! This place was abandoned for a reason!" "Come on, don't be a coward. We will be the only ones here!" "Okay, okay... I'll follow you. You don't have to push me!" "I... I didn't push you..."

A session of reading tea leaves ends in chaos when every single participant reveals a bad omen.

Something tells the home owner that the kids trick-or-treating in front of his house are not wearing costumes - and are not human at all.

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[missisjoker]

Into the Storm

Pairing • Cregan Stark x Wildling!Reader

Tags • mentions of violence, threats of violence, smut.

Rating: Explicit - 18+

The reader infiltrates the Night's Watch castle with a purpose, but it doesn't go according to plan.

Wind-swept mound of the Eastwatch-by-the-sea creeped up on the horizon, dwarfed by the solemn colossal of the Wall stretching as far as the eye could see as you steadied the swaying boat and stepped on the shore.  The grey and green waters of the Bay of Seals were snarling at your feet, treacherous whirlpools dancing and sea foam licking the salty rocks, and the horizon darkened in anticipation of a storm.

You dragged the dingy boat between the boulders ashore, fastened the knot to a nearby tree, and huddled your leather coat tighter around your chest. The soft sheepskin protected well from the summer chill, but the cold winter gusts bit right through it and gnawed at your bones. You downed a sip of water and started climbing up; there was no time to waste idly, unless you wanted to freeze to death and have your eyes picked by seagulls.

Track to the crows’ nest took less than half a day – the dirt road was still dry, pine needles making your walk springy and fast, and you met no stray fishermen or men of the Night’s Watch patrolling the coastline.

Your heart ached- the plan was borderline suicidal, to sneak into the Crows castle and steal the maps of the Wall – but you had no choice; the merciless King-beyond-the-wall deserved to die, and your resolve to see it through settled in your bones like cold settles in the dead of winter.

You waited until dusk, hidden away from the prying eyes and piercing winds behind rotten logs and piles of stone at the castle’s foothill, watching centuries on the walls change and working out the pattern.

When the moon came up, full and pale like goat’s milk, you climbed up the wooden walls past the sleepy guards and hid yourself in the overhead crawlspace above the pathways. The space was narrow, musty and muddy, but you were called the Wild Cat for a reason.

Stealing food from the kitchens was fun no matter how meager and disappointing the bread and stew was; but even more entertaining was taking a hot bath in the cellar while you could’ve been discovered at any minute- and then gleefully watching two young crows fight about the missing hot water.

The outlay of Eastwatch was simple to remember- four watch towers marking each side, training yard and stables in the middle, the great keep with an armory adjacent to the dining hall, a kitchen, a medicinal room, and sleeping quarters squared around them in the form of a horseshoe, all connected by the timber walkways. And, most importantly, the study. A vaulted room in the southern tower, full of dust, books, scrolls, and maps of all kinds.  

It took you three more days of lurking in the shadows like a ghost to learn the shifts and movements, the change of guards, and to single out the “Maester” – a fat, bald man with a flock of greasy white hairs sticking out of his double chin that spent most of his time looking through books and drawing maps in the study. He, too, was easy to learn- after days of work and bossing younger crows around, when the sun set beyond the sea, he’d take a cup of spiced summer wine and a bowl of stew and leave the study empty until the morrow, giving you enough time to roam through the piles of scrolls in search of your target.

You perched in your hiding space, tasted the salty air on your lips, and shivered; the unmoving stillness that stayed in the air for the past few days dissipated; the harbinger of the storm left, and in its place, the winds were picking up again, relentless. The thin, dark line on the horizon was rolling closer, growing and covering half of the sky; even the daylight seemed to dim a little as a winter storm slowly crawled in from the sea.  

A sound of horses neighing and men talking in the yard tickled your ear and your curiosity peaked, but you couldn’t see around the dark logs of your hiding space, and decided not to crawl closer to look – the walls of the castle were wet, century-old pine logs weeping under the prickly wind, and with each dewy tear the movements became more and more unforgiving. Likely, it was nothing to worry about- perhaps they all were feeling the approaching storm and, just like you, were uneased by it.

Finally, the twilight followed the grey, muted dusk, and when the first torches lit up the courtyard, you went in for your target.

The heavy wooden door of the study didn’t have a lock, just a hook from the inside- and the bald master brazenly kept a stick right below the step to pry it open. You creeped into the room and squinted, trying to see in the dark.  By this time, you already knew the room well enough to move around without a light, you could still make out silhouettes and shapes in the dark once your eyes adjusted; an extinguished fireplace at the furthest wall, a heavy table and chairs in the middle, shelves covering the perimeter, and a sleeping bench near the window. Something felt different though, wrong, and made the hair on your neck stand up. It wasn’t just the sweet and mushroomy smell of the old parchments, spiced berry whiff of master’s summer wine, and smoke from the dead fire; no - you felt a faint hint of fir, rosemary, cedar, leather and something unfamiliar that made your heart beat faster. You reached out for a flint when a pile of furs on the bench shifted slightly, and a voice rough from sleep grumbled,

“What are you doing here?”

You froze for a brief second, blood rushing to your face and throat, then took a deep breath and conjured the most soothing and lulling voice you could master, a sweet lullaby tone you heard from women putting their babies to sleep;

“I’m but a dream, my dear, a shadow in the moonlight. Pay me no mind, precious child, lay your weary head to rest and sleep.”

Your feet tip-toed backward toward the door, heart hammering at your ribs, and for a moment, you heard no movement; you breathed out, thinking that your little trick worked, until your back hit something solid and the same voice, clear and fully awake now, growled right above your ear, sending goosebumps across your skin,

“Do you think me a dimwit?”

You yelped and tried to bolt- but your arm was caught in a vicious grip.

You pulled and twisted, tried to wriggle yourself free, but it did nothing; the grip only hardened, surely to leave bruises by the morrow- if you were to live that long - and the man started to pull you closer. So, you twirled on your heels and swung your free arm to slap him - he caught it effortlessly, cuffing your wrist with his hand, but released your other arm in the process- and you gleefully clocked him with it. The impact him stagger backward a step.

All that rowing did make my arms stronger,

You chuckled to yourself, but the humor was short-lived, as the man launched forward and grabbed you again, harder this time;

“Do not hit me again, boy, or I will break your arm.”

You did what you were told and bit him instead.

He cursed and released you again, more out of surprise than pain- but that gave you the needed moment of freedom to dash for the door.

You almost made it when strong arms snatched you by the by the scruff of your neck and hauled you back as if you were a ragdoll; the bastard was too fast and too strong and seemed to see perfectly in the dark, like an animal.

 In desperation, you reached for a knife and put the blade to the man’s throat.

“Unhand me at once.”

“Nay,”

The man grabbed the blade and twisted the knife out of your hand with ease, as if he was prying a toy out of a babe’s grasp, kicked your feet from under you, and threw you on the floor.

Your back hit the hardwood; you winced at the impact and a cracking sound your head made, and then choked out a whine as you were pinned down, the heavy weight crushing your thighs while an iron grip forced both of your arms above your head.

One hand.

That heathen was holding you down with one hand.

You felt anger and fear swirl together into acid, setting fires to your veins.

“What is this, a toothpick?”

His voice was laced with irritation as he examined your knife and ran a thumb along its dull rigged edge,

“An arse scratcher, perhaps?”

Fury rushed through you like boiling oil, as you thrashed and tried biting him again,

“Release me, and you’ll find out.”

You heard him chuckle as he shifted his legs and pinned you down harder,

“Settle down, you little waif.”

You allowed contempt to seep into your voice,

“I’m do not fear you.”

You could hear a grin on the man’s face as he spoke in a low, husky, taunting whisper laced with a touch of amusement,

“Now that is foolish”.

The knife thudded on the floor as the man threw it away like a broken toy and put his free hand on your throat, not enough to strip you of air, but enough to keep you fully under control.

“How many of you are there?”

“Just me.”

The fingers on your throat squeezed harder, pushing you deeper into the floor,  

“How many more?”

“It’s just me! Why do you need more? You can’t even handle one.”

A thumb pressed into your jugular vein, blocking the flow of blood and sending the sound of your own heartbeat echoing in your ears,

“I’m handling you well enough”.

Your fingers twitched with want to free your hand and scratch that arrogance off his face.

“How did you get in here?”

“I walked…”

The man’s hand suddenly left your throat and started roaming your body. You let out a hiss through gritted teeth,

“That desperate, are you, for a free folk to warm your bed? Your crow brothers don’t pleasure you enough?”

The man tsked disapprovingly and continued patting you down.

“I’m looking for weapons.”

His hand was big and warm, and you hated how it burned a trail of heat through the thin leathery coat and pants, barely suppressing a shiver when it slid down your chest right across your tit.  

It suddenly stopped on your waist.

“A woman?”

Realization barely a whisper from him, but it made the blood in your veins run cold, and you coiled, bracing for an assault that never came.

The weight suddenly shifted off your legs, still restraining, but not enough to hurt, and the man flickered something in his pocket and threw it into the fireplace.

You turned your head on instinct at the crackling sound of emerging fire and watched as the first licks of flame ate away the darkness until a strong hand forced your face straight.

You stared at your captor and, oh, the bastard was handsome.  Strong, sharp features framed by a mop of silky brown hair tumbling down broad shoulders that looked like they could shrug off a mountain, corded muscles, soft lips, and piercing eyes that changed color from blue to the stormy grey.

In another life, you would’ve fought other spear wives for a piece of him.

He grabbed your chin and tilted your head to the side, then to the other, observing;  his eyes traced over your body, you felt a traitorous blush creep up your cheeks, as if you were laid out naked under him, at his mercy and under his touch, and you hated yourself for the reaction. Your body was a wild thing, just like you- and it wanted to live, even if your mind has made peace with soon being dead.

“By the sea, then.”

“What?”

“You have salt marks on your boots. Did they run out of the men to send up here, so they risk a woman?”

“Busy with important things,”

His brows furrowed,

“Like what? Getting piss-drunk and fucking wild goats?”

Your eyes narrowed in frustration as you stared into his steel blue ones,

“As if you’re any better, fraternizing with the enemy in the middle of the night.”

“Aren’t fraternizing yet, lass, just getting acquainted.”

Your stomach did a weird jump at the way words rolled off his tongue, and you noticed a faint blush dusting his cheeks.  

“How did you get across the wall?”

“By flapping my arms.”

He braced himself on the free arm and bent closer to you,

“Why are you here? And do not jest; you’re at the end of my patience, a woman that you might be.”

“I need weapons.”

“How much can you fit into your coat?”

“It’s more spacious than it looks.”

He considered you for a moment while you tried not to move, and definitely not to think how the heat of his body was warming you up from head to toe. You must’ve hit your head too hard, because all you could think of was how good he felt on top of your thighs, and how much better he would’ve felt between them.

“Why not trade with the townsfolk?”

 “They don’t have enough castle-forged steel. And yours are better, sharper. They sing when they hit other steel. They sing when they hit the ice. What’s the secret? What do you put in them, crow?”

“Virgin blood. And I’m not a crow.”

“Must be hard to come by.”

He nodded in agreement,

“Aye, very toilsome. And what do you want them for?”

 “Winters are unforgiving. Bet you know nothing of how hard the winters can get up north.”

His mouth tightened, voice sounded controlled, which made it frightening for the lack of emotion in it.

“I know enough, and your hardships are of your own making.”

The fury bubbled in your chest again as you hissed back at him, craning your neck so your noses were almost touching,

“Yes, we were banished beyond the Wall by the Starks simply because we didn’t want to live on our knees.”

He threw you a dirty look,

 “Instead, now you live on your back.”

Blood rushed to your cheeks, and in a newly found bout of strength, you bucked your hips violently enough to throw him off on the floor. 

He landed with a surprised thud as you scrambled to your feet and rushed to the door, but he was faster, again, and stronger - always has been. He grabbed you by the waist and pushed you into the wall, brought you face to face, his arms and his body caging you in. 

You felt goosebumps of fear crawl over your skin as he snarled at you,

“You think you can just prance in here, take what you desire and leave with impunity? Perhaps I should give you to the guards; they will whip the right answers out of you.”

You braced on the wall as your knees almost gave up under you;

“Please don’t” – barely a whisper.  

His sneer was taunting,

“Afraid of a little pain?”

You suppressed a shiver and looked him straight into those cold eyes, battling back treacherous tears,

“Half of your crows are rapists and murderers, whatever they do to me, it won’t be whipping.”

He froze for a second, then his features darkened as he straightened up, a full head taller than you, muscles rolling under the shirt, dwarfing you by his presence. His voice dropped lower,

“I would never allow that”, and for a brief second, you believed him.

Which gave you a crazy idea.

A violent roar of thunder rattled the glass window, and that was enough for you to slip from his hands and dash away, but not to the door.

You sprinted to the table in the center of the room, grabbed a piece of stale bread from the plate the maester left behind, and started vigorously munching.

The man stopped in his tracks and stared at you with undiluted confusion, 

“What are you doing?”

You chewed faster, and then grabbed a cup and gulped it down in one go.

 This is not summer wine.

Your throat burned, your voice coming out as a rough hiss,

“What’s in there?”

“That’s my chamber pot.”

You choked while the bastard had the audacity to laugh.

“I invoke the guest right.”

Now it was his turn to choke.

“You what?”

The incredulity looked funny on him, almost endearing, the crease between his brows smoothed, leaving behind a pleasant, handsome face of a young man as he tilted his head and looked at you like you’ve just grown a pair of horns.

“You’re uninvited.”

“I invited myself. “

“This is not my house.”

“And yet you move around like you own it. So, will you honor it or not?”

He mused on it for a moment,

“Alright. But it goes both ways. You will answer every question I ask of you truthfully, yes?”

“Agreed.”

“And, don’t try to run again,” – his voice dropped lower yet again, sending a shiver through your spine,

“Because I will catch you.”

There was a hint of a threat in the tone, but also something else – amusement, perhaps, or even enjoyment, as the corners of his mouth trended upwards in a barely concealed smile.

An unexpected knock on the door.

You jerked at the sound and looked back at the man, fear flooding your chest again, as he looked at you for what felt a very long second, then made a decision and motioned you to come forth;

“Here, now!”

You moved closer and allowed him to grab you by the shoulders and gracefully move you around the room as if in a dance,

“Not a word.”

He maneuvered you behind the doorframe while holding your wrist, shielded you out of sight with his body as he talked to the man on the other side.

“M’lord, the preparations are done. Stables locked; food lockers secured. Orders?”

“Double the centuries, wake up the captain, and send a patrol through the castle, we might have uninvited visitors.”

“Yes, m’lord”.

As the heavy door screeched shut, you stared at each other.

“M’lord? I’ve never been with a Southern Lord before.”

“Southern?”

“We are south of the Wall, yes.”

A lord, here, at the wall? The Eastwatch… Must be… Lord Umber? What a strike of luck.  

His hand was still on your wrist, thumb rubbing a careful circle on your pulse. You felt your cheeks color again under his gaze, and heard yourself speak before you could stop your own mouth, fighting to keep yourself from purring;

“I heard all southern lords are wanton, have some… strange pleasures, quirks even. Are you one of those? Or the opposite, boring and unbending?”

He leaned in, hot breath tickling your ear,

“I’ll gladly bend my knees for the right woman.”

You steadied yourself with a hand on his waist and gods be damned if that small contact didn’t make heat coil between your legs.

“What is your name?”

“Cregan.”

He didn’t resist when you pushed him into the wall… and thrust a dagger you kept well hidden from his curious hands into the wood right next to his neck.

“Impressive”, he gritted out a little less composed as he pretended to be.

“You should’ve checked better, my lord. “

 Steel bled into your voice as your knife traced a scar on his cheek, then went lower, blade scraping his jaw and following the line of the vein on his neck, pricking the skin just enough to make a dent but not enough to draw blood.

He watched you with an unreadable expression, eyes dark and gleaming. He could easily snap you like a twig, he’s fast and strong enough to do that with ease. Yet he stood there unmoving, like a living statue, steady deep breaths making his chest rise and fall, something akin to hunger burning deep inside the stormy eyes of his, following your every move like a wolf watching his prey.

Excitement thrummed through your veins as you saw his carefully crafted façade crack, little by little.

“You’re threatening me again, guest.”

You traced your fingers over his cheek and jaw and his lips parted in a quiet sigh.

“I have much more to offer.”

He caught your free hand and pulled you even closer,

“You’re going to play a wench now, while you hold a blade to my throat?”

“And what if I’m not playing? Why are men allowed to want and have but gods forbid a woman does the same?”

“Because men can fuck and forget about it the next morning while you might die on a birthing bed.”

There was pain and sorrow in his voice even though his stoic face betrayed almost no emotion, and you wanted to reach out and cup his cheek again to give him comfort.

“Fear of death shouldn’t stop you from living.”

You pulled the knife away from his neck,

“Now, please allow me to explain, I have a lot to tell you.  Think you can do that with a free folk, Lord Umber?”

You flipped the blade in your hand and offer him the hilt as he arched an eyebrow at you. It was a huge gamble, it could easily end up carved into your heart, but…

He took the hilt and nodded.

 “I can do that, yes. What is your name?”

“Y/N, but everyone calls me Cat.”

“A little feral Cat? How very fitting.”

“I’m not little.”

He tilted his head to the side and moved into your space, making you angle your head to look up into his eyes as he almost dwarfed you.

“But you are.”

You flinched, and he moved back, motioning you to move,

“Sit down, say your piece.”

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding, and moved to take a chair at the heavy oak table at the center of the room. Your heart was racing, trying to hammer its way out of your chest, and you had to take a breath to steady your voice. This Lord was a blessing sent by the gods, a strike of luck you never dreamed of getting, and you had to make it work no matter the cost.                

 You told him about your people and the new King-beyond-the-Wall Merzymir, the reason of your visit, and the target of your plan.  Merzymir was unhinged and violent man, cruel beyond measure who took pleasure in unrestrained and public brutality. You told Cregan About his sacrifices “to the Others” - gruesome and unforgivable, little suckling babies left in the carved-up mouths of the weirwood trees in the night, with nothing left of them by the morrow but some bones and a red paste. Whole families fed to rabid bears or left outside to freeze to death, doused in water. Men tied up to trees and ripped limb from limb for speaking up against him. About your own family and what he did to them, and how he made you watch. About his plan to find a tunnel under the Wall and cross South, spreading chaos and death wherever he went.  

Cregan remained silent, face betraying little emotion but his fierce eyes were now soft, with a certain gentleness to them, with a trace of sorrow hidden in the deep of the blue and grey. He was hard to read, this lord, so you pressed on with another argument to get him on your side.

“The King-beyond-the-wall has a farther reach than you think. He’s been negotiating with your own kin, and while you sit idly in your pretty castle and think you are safe, the war is coming to you.”

His brows furrowed as he leaned closer,

“I need names.”

“I don’t know the names, but when they met with him, spoke about flaying the Starks and making new coats out of them.”

You watched his lips twitch into a barely concealed snarl and his hands curl into fists; his lithe body twitching with barely restrained fury. 

Suddenly, your heart filled with dread,

“You’re not one of them, are you?”

“No, I’m the one they want to flay”.

You blinked.

Then you blinked again, and twice more, while the cogs in your brain turned faster and then screeched to a halt.

A Stark.

He is a Stark.

A fucking Stark.

He noticed your stare and chuckled,

“I never said I was an Umber.”

You finally closed your mouth,

“Right.”

“What do you want of me?”

“I need a map”.

“Of what?”

“The wall. The tunnels beneath it.”  

“That doesn’t tell me much.”

“I want to get him into a tunnel and kill him there. I want to watch him choke on his own blood, I want to watch his life go out in his eyes, and then I want to piss on his grave. Does that tell you enough? You should want the same, Stark, for he will get across one day, and on that day, your people will be in for rape and slaughter.”

“And you want me to believe you didn’t know I was coming here? That it was all a coincidence and not some wretched plan of yours?”

You let out a tired sigh,

“Some would call it fate. And no, you were not in any plans of mine, but I’m glad you were here.”

He looked at you with those eyes that changed color in the dim light of the fireplace, his fingers tapping on the blackened wood of the table, and you felt like you haven’t convinced him.

“You’re safe now; why risk going back?”

“I made a promise.”

“You promised the dead, they will forgive you for staying alive.”

 “He has my little sister.”

The silence thickened and draped around you like cold summer fog. He looked away for a long moment as the room fell quiet, silence broken only by cracking of the fireplace and your own heartbeat.

Finally,

“So, you were going to steal the map, and get him to cross the Wall, and then what? How would you escape?”

“I didn’t plan that far.”

He stilled.

“Your plan is shite. You’ll get yourself killed before you even reach him, and your sister won’t be any better off for it.”

“I’m not you, m’lord, I can only risk my own life to do justice. Don’t have an army to do my bidding for me.”

“You do now.”

“What?”

“I won’t allow a savage to cross the Wall, nor would I fight on two fronts. You will have your map.”

He got up and dug a map from a pile of scrolls, rolling it out in front of you, and motioned you to come closer. 

“Here’s a tunnel we can lure Merzemir in. There is another tunnel ten miles to the west, but it is well-protected by the Umbers, stay away from there. I will not give you the others. But this one, this will be perfect. It is far enough from the manned castles to be watched properly, and it is not collapsed in, yet.” 

He guided your hand to a small dot on the parchment, and you burned under his touch. His hands were big, rough and calloused but warm and surprisingly gentle, and you wondered how they would feel like caressing your breasts, and thighs and what’s between them.

By the gods, I want to survive, I want to live.

You swallowed a lump in your throat and watched instead how his hair fell off his shoulders and blocked half of his handsome face. You barely restrained yourself from moving the hair out of the way,

 “You should braid that.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Pay attention.”

“So, this is where I kill him?”

“This is where you lead him.”

You threw him a confused glance as he started explaining.

 Cregan’s plan was so simple and yet so clever, and you didn’t know whether to laugh or cry- you shouldn’t have expected anything less; Starks didn’t hold the North for over 8 thousand years because it was given to them, but because they could keep it. You thought when you first saw his face that he was green as the summer grass and never seen the war- but now you knew there wasn’t a mere boy in front of you, but a ruthless and seasoned warrior, and it filled you with dangerous hope.

He sat beside you, the wooden bench creaking under his weight, explaining the plan further. You couldn’t help but steal glances, saving his face, his voice to your memory. The room was cold yet you feel burning, as if he were a furnace, enveloping the space around you into a warm embrace. It was almost suffocating, but you couldn’t get enough, you wanted to roll yourself in it, rub it into your skin until it seeped through your pores and became a part of you.

Was it because he was so easy on the eyes and his rough hands handled you with ease, making you feel alive? Or was it because he just threw you a lifeline and gave you hope that you could actually win?

Perhaps, both.

He broke you out of your daze by reaching behind him and putting a hunting knife next to your hand.

“What is this?”

“Your weapons are shite, but this is castle-forged steel. Take this with you to the Wall to protect yourself. Or, give it to your sister. You said she’s too soft for the wild space, too kind? Then send her to Winterfell with it so my men know who she is, and she will be safe there.”

The emotional turmoil in you picked up, promising to swallow you whole, and you barely bit back the tears.

“You would have her?”

“I would have both of you.”

He reached out and grabbed your chin between his thumb and index finger, and stared through your eyes down into your very soul.

“You’re a little feral Cat, are you not? Then use one of your nine lives and bring it back to me.”

The true meaning, the weight of it all, made you close your eyes to stop your head from spinning, and you can feel his thumb gently caress your jaw and trace along your lower lip.

You shifted back, and take a full breath of air, without looking at him,

“I will do my best, I promise.”

The moment was broken, Cregan lowered his hand and moved back, giving you space, as your body cried at the sudden lack of warmth. Hope was addicting. He was addicting, this Lord Stark.

“I will get going now,”

“The storm ‘s not over.”

A roll of thunder shuddered against the castle walls as if to give the truth to Cregan’s words, but you persisted;

“I’ve already overstayed my welcome,”

“Is everything going to be a battle with you, lass? You’d know by now I will not hurt you, so what are you afraid of?”

That if I stay much longer, I might not leave at all.

He considered you for a moment, then sighed in surrender,

 “Fine, here.”

A black wool coat wrapped around your shoulders as you threw Cregan a confused glance.

“It’s one of the watchmen’s, cover yourself and walk fast. I’ll lead you out.”

***

The mother of all bad ideas slammed into your face with the first gust of wind; the storm outside was raging, painting the whole world around you dark grey. The torches were all blown out and the rain slashed at the walls relentless. You hid behind Cregan’s back as he shielded you with his body, and followed him through the passage way.

You didn’t get far when the beams above you cracked and moaned and buckled under the weight of the storm, and crashed down onto you.

You threw yourself forward, pushing Cregan out of the way and down the stairs; you both tumbled and landed hard on the lower platform.

“Y/N!”

“I’m alright,”

And you were, except for your right foot that was now screaming in pain. You tried to move, but every time you put even a little of weight on it, a scorching bolt of pain shot through, making you hiss. Wind didn’t help either; you were swaying on your feet like a young silver birch, failing to find your balance.

“We’re going back.”

“I’m fine, just go, I’ll find my own…”

He hauled you up into his arms as if you weighted nothing, holding you so tight you couldn’t wiggle your way out of his grasp even if you wanted to,

“I wasn’t asking.”

His commanding tone left no room for arguing, so you kept silent and wrapped your arms around his neck instead.

He placed you carefully onto the bench and discarded both of your coats. You wheezed  in pain as he took off the boot and examined your ankle, kneeling in front of you and placing your bare foot on top of his thigh. You leaned backwards, allowing him to work his hands over the sensitive skin, kneading the muscles and soothing away the soreness.

“It’s just a strain, but you shouldn’t walk at least until tomorrow.”

Then he noticed a bruise from the rope sneaking and coiling around your calve, old and faded, already turning green and yellow, and traced it with his fingers up to your knee.

“He did this to you?”

“It’s almost healed.”

“He will pay for it.”

The silence thickened while his hands were firm on your thighs, your skin burning through the clothes under his touch. He hesitated,

“Do you…”

Your hand cupped his cheek and caressed his face, making him look up at you, and smiled,

“Do you want to take me up on my other offer?”

“And if I do?”

Your eyes flickered to his mouth and you felt like a desperate, starving woman, the need to touch and to taste crawling under your skin and curling in your chest; his hands rested on your waist now, caging you in, and you wanted to be caged, to be taken and devoured, you wanted him to place you underneath him and do whatever he desired, without mercy. And when your eyes met his, you saw your desperation mirrored in them; you were both starving animals that wanted to feast, so you finally snapped.

The first kiss was angry, but almost chaste; just pressing your lips into his, melting into the warmth. You let out a sigh and ran your fingers along the side of Cregan’s face.  That was enough to get him to move, to grab the side of you neck and maneuver you to deepen the kiss. His mouth ravaged yours, tasted your lips, your tongue, placed a careful nib on your lower lip, traced your jaw and the side of your neck. You felt ablaze, alive, by the gods, you were trying to survive so hard and so long you forgot how to live. You wrapped your arms around him, curling your fingers into his hair to keep you steady, and tilted your head, letting him kiss the other side of your neck down to your shoulder.

You gasped in protest when he suddenly pulled away and drew a steadying breath, avoiding your gaze.

His body vibrated with barely controlled restrain as he finally looked up at you,

“If you want me to stop, say it now.”

You grabbed a fistful of his shirt and leaned back onto the bench, wrapping your legs around his waist and tugging him on top of you, looking into his eyes with pupils blown with lust you were so eager to satiate,

“Don’t you dare.”

That’s all it took to break the last of his resolve. Cregan pressed his mouth into yours, much rougher than before, licking and biting moans out of you, your mouths molding into the shape of each other.  You sighed and arched into his touch, pride swelling in your chest for you just did the unthinkable- you set the stoic, composed Lord of Winterfell free from his lordly chains.

You didn’t have to be quiet, thank the Old gods, the storm outside drowning your moans from unwanted ears, so you let it pour out. Cregan’s hold on your waist tightened as he kissed you harder and nipped on your bottom lip, then pushed your legs open wider with his knee, rocking between your thigs with his arousal, creating perfect friction and stealing another moan out of you.

His nimble fingers made a quick work of your coat and shirt, and then your pants, and you were splayed bare, blushing as he ran his hands over your sides and looked over your body with something akin to reverence, taking it all in.

You grabbed onto his shirt and tugged,

“Take it off”.

He complied immediately, pulling the shirt off in one swoop and lowering himself back into another deep kiss, his chest rumbling with an approving groan as you whined into his mouth at the contact.

He’s burning hot, and your body curled into the heat and melted under it, nipples perking up at the friction of skin on skin as you ran your nails down his back.

He wrapped his hand around your throat and tilted your head, giving himself full access to your neck, kissing all of it, hot breath tickling your ear and lips sucking at your pulse. He pecked on the sensitive skin in the crook of your neck, making you whine and buck your hips, and went lower, cupping your breast as he slowly kissed his way down to the other one.

You wriggled underneath him, wetness pooling between your things and your cunt clenching at the emptiness so desperately it was borderline painful.

“Just fuck me already, what…”

Cregan ran his tongue over your nipple cut your protest short; sucked on the little bud, and wrapped his lips around it, making you whimper louder underneath him.

“Patience, my little cat, we have time.”

 His kissed a trail lower, to your belly, to the dips of your hips, to the sensitive skin of your inner thighs.  You shuddered as his fingers finally reached your folds, inquisitive, sliding through the damp heat as he cursed,

“Fuck, you’re dripping wet,”

“Damn, Stark, I’m not one of your blushing virgin maidens, I don’t need you to… “

His tongue lapped at your folds and you let out an obscene moan, hips involuntarily jerking up but he pushed them down and kept them in place as he licked and prodded and nibbled, circling your pearl in a teasing repetition, sending shock through your spine, making your back arch and hands desperately grab the furs.

You slapped your hand over your mouth to keep you from moaning louder as the pleasure crested and your body tingled in anticipation. Suddenly, he reared back, watching you whine and struggle at the loss of friction from between your thighs.

“Why’d you stop?”

You protested in an outraged whine, but he just smirked, lifted himself up and entered you in one move, the burn of the stretch and the sudden fullness making your mouth fall open and you letting out a string of curses. You buckled your hips against him like you couldn’t stop yourself, grinding and pushing yourself split open on his cock as he stilled your waist with a heavy hand and simply watched your desperate thrashes. The friction was enough to send you over the top, and you clenched violently around him, your thighs struggling to close around his waist while your heels kicked on the furs, riding your orgasm. As you came down, he rubbed your belly and kneaded your meaty thighs and buttocks.

’t was to your liking then?”

“you bastard!”

He was smiling, and it was the most beautiful thing you’ve seen in a long time.

He ran his hands over your body, thumbs playing with your nipples, caressing your waist, rubbing your thighs as you slowly adjusted to his girth inside you;  he was big, almost too big, but your cunt sang being filled up to the point of bursting.

He whispered, “spread ‘ll more for me, love” and you immediately spread your legs wider, allowing him to sink deeper in you. He moaned quietly, sheathing himself fully in your body, and it’s the sweetest sound you’ve ever heard.

His hands grabbed your waist and lift your butt up to rest your thighs on his. He picked up an achingly slow pace, savoring every moment, making you feel every inch of his cock sliding in and out of you, sweet torture with each claiming roll of his hips. You tried to mirror his movements, arching your back and pressing into him, as he let out a soft appreciative laugh,

 “Such an eager thing,”

 He picked up his speed, sinking himself into you with fast, powerful thrusts, reducing you to a moaning, whimpering, withering wench fully under his control.  You dragged your nails over his bare chest, his arms, his back, as the sound of wet skin slapping skin filled the room. The sensation was maddening, but you couldn’t get enough of it, of him, of being filled up and being alive.  

Cregan dipped his body onto yours and caged you between his arms, kissing your mouth, your jaw, your neck as he continued  to thrust inside of you, until the pleasure coiled and burst and your vision whited out. You felt his hips stutter, losing the rhythm, shortly after, as he chased his own pleasure, cursing and moaning your name into your ear.

He dragged his nose along the line of your neck, inhaling deeply, voice rough and raw,

“You’re here to steal my sanity, aren’t you?”

You ran your hand on the side of his face, looking into his eyes,

“Would it be such a bad thing?”

He looked at you almost in awe, the sheen of sweat glistening on his brow, and then pressed his forehead to yours,

“No, it would not.”

You curled closer to him, soaking his warmth and feeling his heartbeat echo under your skin, as he caressed your face and your jaw,

“You have to stay alive, y/n.”

The softness of his voice clawed at your heart and made it bleed,

“Cregan, I…”

Your eyes met his, full of understanding and resolve, as he whispered against your lips,

“I know.”

He said nothing else for a while, just tracing his fingers along the lines of your body, rubbing his thumb over a spot where he sucked on your skin just before.

“Admiring your work?”

Your tone was teasing, but he replied in absolute seriousness,

“And what if I am?”

That prickled you and your brow arched at his shamelessness, as you pushed him down and crawled on top of him,

“You know, two can play this game.”

His hands instinctively grabbed your waist while you wasted no time and started kissing his mouth, his jaw, down to his neck, and then sucked a hickey onto it.

A deep sigh he let out encouraged you to continue,

“You shouldn’t”.

“What? You don’t like it?”

You felt him writhe under you and knead your ass as you peppered his body with kisses and small nibbles in revenge,

”Kitten, stop.”

You persisted, kissing and sucking as his hands roamed your body, and then found the tender skin in the crook of his neck, and bit down, not enough to draw blood but hard enough to leave a mark by the morrow,

“Fuck!”

Cregan suddenly surged up, lifting your hips and lowering you on his hard cock, drawing a maddening moan from both of you,

“Oh, so you do like it”.

 “I do.”

His voice was rough as he started fucking you face-to-face, at a frantic pace, almost desperately, hands gripping your waist as he moved you back and forth on his cock.  You mirrored his movements, griding down on his hips, grabbing a fistful of his hair, cupping his face to kiss.  He fucked you like he owned you, or like you were out of time- and he was right at both.  You threw your hands around his neck and brought the two of you even closer, bracing on his arm and pulling his head down to your shoulder, letting his soft moans fill your ears as his hardness mercilessly filled your cunt.

“You are as feral as I am,” you whispered, realization hitting you hard and his hot breath tickled your ear,

“You’re right in that”.

The admission was open and vulnerable, and you forced yourself to look into Cregan’s eyes, at his face, beautiful and disheveled, and thought for a second that maybe he was as much gone for you as you were for him, even if only for just one night.

Cregan lifted you up once more and lowered you on your back, pushing your legs to your chest, allowing him deepest access. Your toes curled as he fucked you senseless, each stroke getting harder and faster, and you came with his name as a prayer on your lips.

When his movements became erratic once more, you wrapped your legs around his waist and pushed him deeper into you, grabbing him by his hair,

“Spill in me, Cregan, I want ALL of you. Make me yours.”

He groaned at the sound of it and closed his hand around your neck as he slowed down his hips and savored every thrust, filling you with his hot seed and sending you over the edge, again.  

You’ve never been on such a high before, body floating, mind whiting out in euphoria like an open field shining in the sun under the first cover of snow. Cregan draped over you, keeping you caged in and warm, and you curled into him, soaking it all in, taking his warmth, his smell, his voice to memory for future cold-biting nights, catching them in your mind like you’d catch fireflies to keep you company in the dark.

You knew by then, that whatever the future held for you, he ruined you for any other man. It would never be enough; nobody would ever be enough - and you made your peace with that.

As you both drifted to sleep in each other’s arms, your fingers found their way into his hair.

“’t are you doin’”

“Braiding your hair.”

“Hmm… I’ll allow that.”

You barely stopped a laugh as he nuzzled into your neck and let your fingers do their job.

***

You left at dawn, while he was still asleep, taking a moment to look over his peaceful sleeping frame and take his handsome face to your memory, placing a soft kiss on his brow.

The storm had lifted up, but the gusts of wind swept through the air, making you stumble.

You hid in the forest for a while, waiting for the last whirls of the storm to dissipate and yearning for… what?

Him.

You finally saw him ride out the castle with a small group of men, with your braid still in his hair. It made your throat itch and eyes sting, but then you took a deep breath and straightened up.

You were the Cat of the North. You were going to do what you planned, you would survive it, and then you would make your way to Winterfell.

[entheognosis]

It is very important to go out alone, to sit under a tree—not with a book, not with a companion, but by yourself—and observe the falling of a leaf, hear the lapping of the water, the fishermen’s song, watch the flight of a bird, and of your own thoughts as they chase each other across the space of your mind. If you are able to be alone and watch these things, then you will discover extraordinary riches which no government can tax, no human agency can corrupt, and which can never be destroyed.

Jiddu Krishnamurti