#the loving older brother and the big bad wolf

[seafarersdream]

Cregan x reader where the reader is betrothed to him but he gets close to Alysanne Blackwood and she feels insecure. But he then reassures her that he loves her. Could be fluff or smut, whatever you feel fits

Big Bad Wolf | 18+ (Cregan Stark x Y/N)

Y/N knows exactly why she has been sent to the frigid North: her grandsire, Otto Hightower, intends for her to secure Cregan Stark’s loyalty to the Greens with a proposed betrothal. A union that would bind the North to her family’s cause and strengthen her brother’s claim. She can’t help but wonder what he would sees in her—a willing pawn, a coveted prize, or perhaps, an unexpected adversary?

TW // Strong language and profanities, mild sexual content, mention of injuries and wounds, slow burn romance.

Note: I took a slightly different approach than originally requested to better align with my brainstorming ideas. I hope you all enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it! And fair warning—it ended up being around 10k words because I got carried away and so into it😂

The wind howls around her like a beast, its icy fingers clawing at her cloak, desperate to strip her bare. Y/N Targaryen pulls the fur-lined fabric tighter around her shoulders, her silver hair whipping against her face as she stares out into the endless expanse of white that is the North.

The cold is sharp, biting against her skin, a relentless assault unlike anything she has ever felt in King’s Landing. There, the sun always warmed the walls of the Red Keep, the gardens bloomed with vibrant flowers, and the salty sea breeze carried the smell of soils from distant lands. Here, in the North, all of that feels like a distant memory—a dream now buried under layers of snow.

She shivers, and not just from the cold.

Being a Targaryen means something. Being a Targaryen princess means the realm is her oyster. She has always known this. The daughter of the late King Viserys Targaryen and the sister to the current ruler, Y/N has never wanted for anything. Born under the banners of black and red, her birthright is as weighty as it is illustrious. In the courts of King's Landing, her name alone is a force that can command, bend, and break. The Valyrian blood coursing through her veins has bestowed upon her an otherworldly beauty—hair the colour of moonlight, eyes that burn like molten silver. She is used to men and women alike vying for her favor, hanging on her every word, their desires evident in their eyes. She is used to being adored, admired, even envied.

But here, in the North, none of that means a thing.

The North is a different world, an ancient one with a heartbeat of ice and snow. It is a world where the name Targaryen carries little weight, where dragons are the stuff of nightmares, not symbols of power and strength.

For thousands of years, the North stood as its own kingdom, ruled by House Stark of Winterfell—a house older than her own, as old as the First Men themselves. The North submitted to Aegon the Conqueror’s rule, but submission is not the same as surrender. She can feel the weight of that history in every flake of snow, every gust of wind that threatens to unseat her from the back of her horse. The North remembers.

And the North does not care for Targaryen princesses.

The men and women who stare at her from the edges of Winterfell’s courtyard do not see a daughter of kings. They see a southerner, a foreigner, an outsider draped in silk and furs too fine for their taste. They see someone who has never felt the bite of a northern winter, who does not understand the constant struggle for survival that defines their lives. To them, she is the very embodiment of everything they disdain—the soft courtly life, the excesses of the south, the endless games of backstabbing and ambition that mean nothing in the face of a harsh winter. Her beauty, her title, her blood—none of it matters here. She is a stranger in a strange land, and they watch her with eyes that are cold and calculating.

It is a stark contrast to the life she has known. In King’s Landing, courtiers flocked to her side, eager for a smile, a kind word, a glance that might change their fortunes. But here, no one bows or scrapes, no one offers her flattery or fawning attention. Instead, they glance at her with a mixture of suspicion and curiosity, their expressions as unreadable as the frozen ground beneath her feet. Even the cold here seems to seep into their bones, hardening their faces into masks of stone.

Her gaze shifts to the man standing at the center of it all—the Warden of the North, Cregan Stark. He is as unyielding as the walls of Winterfell, a man carved from the very ice that surrounds them. His dark hair is touched with frost, his grey eyes piercing through the flurries like a direwolf scanning the wood for prey. He regards her with a guarded expression, his features stoic, as though he is measuring the weight of her presence in his hall. There is strength in his stance, a raw, quiet power that seems to ripple beneath his skin like a river beneath ice.

She knows why she is here. Her grandsire, Otto Hightower, has sent her north with a proposal for a betrothal, hoping to secure Cregan Stark's allegiance to the Greens. A marriage alliance that would bind the North to her family, to her brother’s cause. But she also knows that such an alliance is easier proposed than accepted. The Starks are proud, stubborn as the wolves on their banners, and they are not easily swayed by promises or threats. She wonders what Cregan Stark sees when he looks at her—a pawn, a prize, a potential enemy?

Y/N squares her shoulders, forcing herself to meet his gaze with the same intensity. Her breath mists in the cold air between them, mingling with the snowflakes that drift down from the leaden sky. She is a Targaryen, born of fire and blood, and she will not be cowed by the cold.

She takes a step forward, her boots crunching in the snow, and inclines her head with a grace born of years at court. “Lord Stark,” she begins, her voice steady despite the chill that bites at her skin, “I bring greetings from my family and an offer that I hope will interest you.”

For a moment, there is silence, broken only by the distant howl of the wind. The Northmen are watching, waiting for their lord’s response. Cregan Stark’s grey eyes remain locked on hers, his expression unreadable, and she feels the weight of the North pressing down upon her.

“Princess,” Cregan replies at last, his voice a low rumble that echoes across the courtyard. “Welcome to Winterfell.”

And with those words, the game begins.

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Y/N Targaryen has always been more her grandsire’s granddaughter than her mother’s daughter—or her father’s, for that matter. Not that it has been much of a choice. King Viserys had been many things in his life—gentle, soft-hearted, more comfortable with scrolls and histories than with the complexities of ruling—but present, he was not. His love for Rhaenyra, his firstborn, was the love of a man whose affections had been spent long before Y/N was ever born. So, she learned quickly that if she wanted attention, guidance, or even a semblance of familial warmth, she would find none of it in her father.

Instead, she found herself drawn to Otto Hightower. He was a man of purpose, of ambition, of decisive action. With her mother’s soft words and frail smiles failing to shape her in any meaningful way, it was Otto who taught her the art of politics, of maneuvering through a court filled with predators. In him, she saw a mirror of her own aspirations—always looking forward, always plotting the next move. It was from him she learned that power is something you seize, not something you wait for. She knew he would never coddle her, never tell her she was beloved just for being herself; he only valued what was valuable, and that gave her a clarity she found comforting.

Her siblings, however, were a different matter entirely.

Aegon, her eldest brother, was a fool. Self-conscious, always craving their parents' love like a starving child reaching for a morsel of bread. For years, he had hoped to be the shining star in their father’s eyes, only to discover that no matter what he did, he would always be in the shadow of their half-sister, Rhaenyra—the daughter Viserys truly adored. That realization had driven Aegon to the brink. He had spiraled into self-destruction, numbing his pain with Arbor Red, drowning in the company of whores and sycophants who fed his illusions of being liked, respected even. She had watched him become a hollowed-out shell of a prince, playing at being a king among the rats and the vipers of the Red Keep. Aegon was a king now, a ruler in name, but he wore his crown like a noose.

Aemond, on the other hand, was a different creature. Where Aegon sought love, Aemond sought approval, validation—something to make the gods’ cruel joke of his birth order feel less like a curse. He set impossible standards for himself, always striving to outshine his elder brother, to rise above his station as the spare. He immersed himself in philosophy, warfare, Westerosi customs, determined to be the best in every field, the most learned, the most skilled. And yet, no matter how many strategies he mastered or how many books he consumed, he would always be the second son. Aemond may have won the favor of their grandsire, may have been admired by those who valued intellect and ruthlessness, but in the end, Aegon’s incompetence still carried the weight of the gods' favor. And that knowledge gnawed at Aemond like a wolf at a bone.

Helaena and Daeron, bless them, were different. Y/N could say nothing ill of those two. Helaena, with her strange, prophetic dreams and her love for insects, was perhaps the only light in their shadowed family. She lived in a world of her own, a world of strange riddles and hidden truths that no one else could see. Daeron, meanwhile, had been smart enough to remove himself from the poisonous atmosphere of the Red Keep, carving out a life for himself in Oldtown.

As for herself? Y/N had always considered herself a performer, a mirrorball reflecting the light of others, knowing exactly where to place her foot in every dance. She did not crave her parents’ approval or love; she never had. She knew her worth, not in how many times her father called her his precious daughter or how often her mother sighed with the weight of unspoken affection. No, her worth came from the power she had managed to accumulate on her own, the alliances she had forged, the influence she wielded like a blade. She had held her own court, commanded attention, respect, and fear. She had learned to survive, to thrive, to be more than just another pretty Targaryen face.

And now, she had none of it.

Here in this frozen wasteland, she was stripped bare of everything she had built. The North was a godforsaken, heretic country in her eyes—a land of rigid codes and old gods, where men did not bow easily, where words were weighed like precious stones, and secrets were buried beneath layers of ice and snow. She had no court, no power to wield, no influence to peddle.

And then, there was Cregan Stark.

A man whose reputation preceded him like a cold wind. Honorable, they said. A man of principle, a man who lived by his word, who believed in truth and duty as if they were his religion. There was no room for subterfuge in his life, no space for half-truths or hidden motives. His gaze was like steel, unbending and severe. It was almost appalling, really, how saintly he was. Mother above she thought more than once, he would be eaten alive in King’s Landing.

In the South, where smiles masked daggers and every word dripped with double meaning, a man like Cregan Stark would be a lamb led to slaughter. His sense of honor would be his undoing, his truthfulness a weapon turned against him. She had never met a man like him. A man who looked at her not with lust or ambition but with a quiet, steady gaze that seemed to see right through her. He seemed entirely unimpressed by her. It was infuriating and fascinating all at once.

Y/N squared her shoulders, determined not to let her irritation show. She would learn this place, learn its people, and most of all, she would learn Cregan Stark. She would find the crack in his armor, the flaw in his honor, the chink in his unyielding principles. Everyone had one; it was just a matter of knowing where to look, how to press, how to push. She was not here to be swallowed by the North—she was here to conquer it, one way or another.

She knew that the path to Lord Cregan Stark’s cold, cold heart was not a direct one. It was not a road paved with smiles or adorned with sweet words. It was a labyrinth, and the only way through it was by understanding his people.

She had watched him long enough to know this much: Cregan Stark was a man who put his people above all else. The North had a way of making even its leaders humble before it. They were not like the nobles of King’s Landing, always scheming for personal glory or clawing at each other’s throats for favor. Here, in this frozen hell, survival depended on something far simpler, far more primal—on loyalty, on unity, on trust.

So, she began to snake her way into the hearts of his people.

It started small, with gestures they would not expect from a southerner, least of all a Targaryen princess. She knew how they saw her—pampered, delicate, with hair too fair and hands too soft to have ever known true work. She could feel their eyes on her wherever she went, could hear the whispers as she passed by, wrapped in her fine furs, a dragon in the land of wolves.

The courtyard was busy that morning, the ground slick with melting snow and the air thick with the sounds of work—axes splitting wood, the clang of blacksmiths’ hammers against anvils, the shouts of men and women hauling barrels and crates. She approached the group of women gathered near the cookfires, a mixture of curiosity and skepticism in their gazes. Y/N took a deep breath, pulling her cloak tighter around her shoulders, and stepped into their midst.

“Is there something I can do?” she asked, her voice clear and carrying over the noise. A few heads turned, eyes narrowing in surprise. She saw a woman in her middle years, broad-shouldered and with arms like tree trunks, squinting at her as if she were a curious animal. The others paused, their hands stilling in their work, glances exchanged.

The woman, who she had come to learn was named Mildred, finally spoke, her tone rough as gravel. “Princess,” she drawled, dragging the word out like it was something distasteful in her mouth. “I don’t think there’s much here a royal lady can handle. Unless you’ve got a mind to ruin that fancy cloak of yours.”

Y/N smiled. “I’ve more cloaks, Mildred. And if it gets ruined, well, I suppose I’ll just have to make do with another one, won’t I?”

A snort came from somewhere in the back of the group, and Y/N’s eyes flicked to the source—a younger woman with a mess of red hair and a skeptical expression. Y/N kept her smile, but she let a hint of a challenge creep into her tone. “Besides, I’m not afraid of a little dirt.”

The women exchanged glances, weighing her words. Mildred shrugged at last, tossing a hunk of dough onto a wooden board. “Fine then. Let’s see how you fare kneading bread. Got to feed half the damned keep today, and we’re short on hands.”

Y/N stepped forward without hesitation, rolling up her sleeves. The cold bit at her exposed skin, but she ignored it. Her hands, unused to such labor, moved awkwardly at first, pressing into the dough with less confidence than she wanted. Mildred watched her, arms crossed. “Too gentle,” She grunted. “You’re not petting a dragon. Put your weight into it.”

Y/N did as instructed, leaning into the motion, feeling the resistance of the dough against her palms. It was a small thing, this task, but it was a start. She could feel their eyes on her, hear the whispers quieting, turning into something more like curiosity than derision.

Hours passed, and the smell of freshly baked bread filled the courtyard. The women began to loosen up around her, laughter breaking out now and then. She let herself laugh with them, leaning into their banter.

Days turned into weeks, and Y/N made it her mission to weave herself into the fabric of Winterfell. She found her way to the blacksmith's forge, where the air was thick with smoke and the clang of metal. She watched as the smiths worked, their faces streaked with soot, and asked questions—many, many questions.

“Why do you use that angle with the hammer?” she asked one of the younger smiths, a boy not much older than.

The boy, startled at first, blinked at her, then answered, “To shape the steel, Princess. To make it stronger, to give it an edge that lasts.”

She nodded, watching his hands. “Show me,” she demanded. The boy hesitated, glancing around nervously, but she stepped forward. “Don’t worry. I can hold a hammer.”

He did as she asked, and soon enough, she was holding the hammer herself, mimicking his movements. Her strokes were clumsy, awkward at first, but she learned fast, and with every thud of the hammer, she felt the eyes of the smiths soften just a little more.

In the great hall, she would sit with the lords and their wives, listening to their woes, their concerns, their petty grievances. Y/N had a mind sharpened by the best—her grandsire, Otto, had seen to that. She listened carefully, offering her thoughts, her solutions, often to the surprise of those around her.

“The river’s dammed up, and it’s ruining the fields,” one lord grumbled, a beefy man with a thick beard.

"Then undam it," she replied, her tone smooth. "Divert it, instead of letting it run its course. Build channels to guide it where you want it to go."

The man blinked at her, surprised. “Aye, well… that could work.”

“It will work,” she replied, a small smile playing at her lips.

She advised them on how to better store grain, how to rotate their crops, and how to reinforce their defenses with minimal resources. She made suggestions that saved money, improved efficiency, and most importantly, earned her a grudging respect. To her, these Northerners were like sheep, clueless and slow-witted. But she smiled, she helped, she solved their problems. She was always in the middle of things, her presence a constant in the great hall, the courtyard, the kitchens, the stables.

She even joined the hunts. The Northmen had mocked her at first for daring to ride out with them. “A princess in the snow?” they laughed. “She’ll freeze before we see a single stag.” But she proved them wrong. Her dragon’s blood kept her warm, kept her defiant in the face of the bitter cold, and she was the first to draw her bow, the first to bring down a deer.

“By the gods, she’s got a steady hand,” one of the older men muttered to Cregan as they dragged the deer back to Winterfell.

Cregan’s gaze had flicked over to her, his expression as unreadable as ever, but there had been a flicker of something there. Amusement? Respect? She couldn’t tell, but it was enough.

Bit by bit, she felt the change. The Northmen, these stubborn, superstitious heretics, began to soften, to open up to her. They began to speak to her not with suspicion but with interest, their words less guarded, their gazes less cold. They valued her now, saw her as something more than just a prim and proper southerner.

It was at a feast that she noticed it—how the lords and ladies began to speak of her in hushed, respectful tones, how they sought her out for advice, for a kind word, for counsel. She saw how Cregan watched from across the hall, his grey eyes narrowing, the faintest flicker of something akin to admiration crossing his face.

She caught his gaze, held it across the room. He didn’t look away. Instead, he raised his cup to her, a silent acknowledgment. A challenge, perhaps.

Y/N raised hers in return, a smile playing at her lips. The North had begun to bend, and soon enough, so would he.

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One afternoon, Y/N had just returned from Winter Town, cheeks flushed from the biting wind and the smell of pine and smoke still clinging to her cloak. The snow had begun to fall heavier now, thick flakes drifting down like soft feathers, blanketing the world in a quiet that felt almost sacred. She pushed back her hood as she stepped into the warmth of the great hall, her eyes scanning the room out of habit, looking for something—anything—that could further her cause.

She spotted a cluster of handmaidens seated by the hearth, their heads bent in concentration. They were mending and embroidering clothing, fingers working deftly with needle and thread. Y/N noticed the familiar shapes taking form on the fabric—the direwolves.

She glided toward them, her steps light, her expression warm and inviting. She had perfected this look over years at court—the doe-eyed charm that could disarm even the most hardened of men. “Oh,” she said with a bright smile, her voice a melodic lilt, “working on the Stark sigil, are we?”

The handmaidens looked up, a bit startled at her approach. They were used to her presence by now, but not so much to her sudden interest in their needlework. A girl named Caragh, her brown hair tied back in a braid, nodded. “Aye, milady. Lord Cregan’s cloak was torn on the last hunt, and his tunic needs a new embroidery. Wolves, of course.”

Y/N tilted her head, her eyes sparkling with interest. “How lovely,” she murmured, kneeling down beside them. “May I see?”

They hesitated for a moment but eventually passed her the cloth, the direwolf stitched in silver-grey thread standing fierce against the dark fabric. She studied it with a discerning eye, her fingers tracing the lines of the stitches. The work was good, but plain—functional, as was the way of the North.

A smile danced on her lips as an idea took shape. “Do you know,” she began, her voice soft and conspiratorial, “I’ve always been rather good with a needle myself. Perhaps I could try my hand at it? Just a little, of course. I wouldn’t want to overstep.”

The women exchanged glances, unsure, but intrigued. “Princess, you’d do that?” asked Caragh, her tone curious. “We’d be honored to see southern stitchings. They’re said to be… well, far more intricate than ours.”

Y/N chuckled softly, the sound like a chime in the quiet hall. “Oh, we do have a flair for the elaborate, it’s true,” she agreed. “But I promise, I won’t change it too much. Just add a bit of finesse.” She reached for the thread, selecting a shade of grey that was just a touch darker than the one they had been using. “Here,” she said, threading her needle with practiced ease, “let me show you.”

She set to work, her hands moving with ease. Her stitches were tiny and precise, the needle dancing in and out of the fabric as if it were silk and not the heavy wool of the North. The handmaidens watched her, their eyes wide with fascination as she added delicate touches to the direwolf—tiny knots that gave the illusion of fur, subtle shadows that made the beast look as if it might leap from the cloth at any moment.

“How do you make it look so… alive?” one of the younger handmaidens breathed, her cheeks flushed with awe.

Y/N smiled, enjoying their attention. “It’s all in the details,” she said with a little wink. “You have to see the wolf in your mind first, imagine the way its fur moves, the way its muscles shift beneath the skin. Then, you just… follow the thread.”

The hours passed, and the handmaidens were more than happy to let her work, their questions and chatter filling the space around them. They asked her about King’s Landing, about the fashions of the court, about the kinds of silks and velvets they had only heard of in stories. She answered them with good humor, spinning tales of the South that made their eyes shine with wonder. And all the while, her needle moved, faster and faster, until the direwolf on the fabric seemed to almost snarl, its eyes fierce and intelligent, its body coiled as if ready to pounce.

By the time Cregan Stark returned from a hunt, the hall was warm with the crackle of the fire and the murmur of soft voices. He strode in, snow still dusting his dark hair, his cloak heavy with ice. His boots left wet prints on the stone floor as he shook the cold from his shoulders and glanced around.

He stopped short when he saw her—Y/N, seated among his handmaidens, needle in hand, a small, satisfied smile on her lips as she worked on his clothing. His eyes narrowed, and he made his way over, curious despite himself.

“Princess,” he greeted her, his voice a low rumble, “I see you’ve taken to mending clothes now?”

Y/N looked up, her expression unruffled. “Lord Stark,” she replied, her tone light, teasing almost, “I thought I might be of some use. Your handmaidens were kind enough to let me practice a little of our southern needlework.” She held up the fabric for him to see, the direwolf now a striking, almost lifelike creature that seemed to leap from the fabric with a ferocity that had not been there before.

Cregan’s eyes widened, just slightly, his gaze moving over the stitching, his expression unreadable. “It’s… well done,” he said finally, and she could hear the surprise in his voice, grudging though it was.

She smiled, pleased. “You sound surprised, my lord. Did you think a Targaryen’s hands were only meant for taming dragons or holding goblets of wine?”

He let out a soft chuckle, the sound like gravel grinding together. “Not surprised,” he corrected, his gaze meeting hers, steady and unyielding. “Impressed. You’ve a fine hand.”

Y/N's smile widened. “Why, thank you, Lord Stark. I’m glad my work meets your approval.”

He nodded, his gaze still on the cloth, the direwolf that now seemed to pulse with life. “Aye, it does,” he admitted. “Though I wonder, Princess… are you looking to become a seamstress now?”

She laughed, a bright, ringing sound that filled the hall. “No, my lord. I’ve no desire to take up a needle permanently. But I do find it’s useful, from time to time, to show that a princess’s hands can be skilled in more ways than one.”

His eyes flicked up to hers, a challenge in them. “Is that so?” he asked quietly. “And tell me, Princess, what other skills do your hands possess?”

Y/N’s smile did not waver. “Oh, many things, Lord Stark,” she replied softly. “Many things indeed.”

He held her gaze for a moment longer, something unreadable flickering in the depths of his eyes, before he nodded again. “Well,” he said, “I’ll be sure to keep that in mind.”

And with that, he turned away, but not before she caught the slightest curve of a smile on his lips. She watched him go, feeling a thrill of satisfaction course through her veins.

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Her scheme had worked flawlessly. Piece by piece, the North was falling into place just as she’d planned. The people were warming to her, Cregan's gaze was lingering a little longer than before, and Y/N could feel the iciness of Winterfell slowly starting to melt in her favor. Everything was moving toward the outcome she desired.

Well until it wasn't.

The disruption arrived in the form of Alysanne Blackwood—Black Aly, they called her. Y/N watched her ride into Winterfell with a certain swagger, a confidence that bordered on arrogance. A member of House Blackwood, the aunt of young Lord Benjicot Blackwood, Alysanne had come north under some pretense Y/N didn't care to know about. At the time, it had seemed inconsequential. She had dismissed it, too caught up in her own plans to pay attention to this new player on the board.

A mistake. A rare, foolish mistake. Her grandsire would have scolded her for being so pliant, so hasty, so unguarded. Never underestimate a rival, he would have said. Never take your eyes off the board. And Y/N had done just that.

She should not have misconstrued this woman.

Alysanne was everything Y/N was not. Tall and lean, with thick black curls that tumbled past her waist, she had a wildness to her that seemed to embody the very spirit of the North. Her long legs and strong arms marked her as a woman who spent more time in the saddle than at a hearth, more time holding a bow than a needle. She wasn’t beautiful in the conventional sense—her features were sharp, her smile wide and often mocking—but there was something about her. Something raw and fearless, a fire that seemed to burn just beneath her skin. And that smell…woodsmoke. It clung to her like a second skin, as if she had been born in the midst of a bonfire.

Y/N had heard the whispers—how Black Aly was a legend in the North. An excellent hunter, a horse-breaker, an archer with a keen eye. She was bold and outspoken, with a tongue sharp enough to cut through steel and a wit that could match the sharpest of minds. The Northerners adored her. They loved her for her wildness, for her lack of pretense, for the way she embodied everything they valued: strength, courage, a disregard for the fripperies of southern court life.

She could see it in their faces as Alysanne moved among them, laughing and jesting with the men, sharing bread and soup with the women. Y/N could almost feel the tides shifting, the winds changing, as this woman—this picture-perfect embodiment of Northern virtues—threatened to ruin everything she had worked for.

Cregan Stark took to Alysanne immediately. Of course, he did. Why wouldn’t he? He took her hunting, riding out into the forest with her at dawn while Y/N was left behind to smile and make small talk with his bannermen. He brought her to his war councils, included her in his patrols, took her to meet the northern lords. Wherever he went, Black Aly was at his side, her sharp, barking laughter echoing off the walls of Winterfell.

Y/N could see it in the way he looked at Alysanne—a gleam of admiration, of respect, of something deeper, something raw. He valued her opinions, sought her counsel. And that stung more than Y/N cared to admit. Did it truly come down to this? Y/N Targaryen, a princess of the realm, having to compete with some backwater nobody?

She could feel her temper simmering beneath her skin like a slow-burning fire, the frustration building with each passing day. She thought of confronting Cregan directly, her hands curling into fists as she imagined the scene. She would demand to know why he spent so much time with that woman, why he found her so intriguing, so worthy of his attention. But no—she knew better than that. She couldn’t afford to appear desperate, to show him how much this rankled her. Instead, she kept her face a mask of calm, her smiles as practiced and serene as ever, even as she felt herself cracking.

One evening, as Cregan returned from yet another outing with Alysanne, Y/N was waiting for him in the hall, her posture regal, her eyes gleaming in the dim firelight. “Lord Stark,” she called out, her tone light but firm. “You’ve been busy.”

Cregan paused, glancing at her, his expression unreadable. “There is much to do, Princess,” he replied evenly. “The North doesn’t rest.”

She offered him a smile, one that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “So I see. And it seems you have found quite the companion to help you with your duties.”

Cregan’s brow furrowed slightly, but he didn’t rise to the bait. “Alysanne is a trusted friend,” he said. “She knows these lands as well as I do.”

Y/N felt a flicker of irritation but kept her voice smooth. “Of course. She is a fine… huntress. But surely, you don’t need her for every task, my lord. I’m certain there are others who could serve just as well. Perhaps even better.”

He regarded her for a long moment, his grey eyes searching her face. “Are you offering to join me on my next patrol, Princess?” he asked, his tone challenging, with the faintest hint of amusement.

Y/N’s smile didn’t falter, but inside, she felt a surge of frustration. “If you think my skills would be of use,” she replied, matching his tone. “I am, after all, more than just a… court ornament.”

He chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound that made her skin prickle. “I’ve never doubted that,” he said softly. “But the North is not a place for games or tricks. It demands strength and a willingness to face the unknown without fear.”

Her smile wavered, just a little. “I am not afraid of the unknown,” she replied, her voice edged with steel. “Nor am I afraid to prove myself.”

Cregan’s eyes softened, just for a moment. “I don’t doubt that,” he said, his voice lowering, more intimate. “But Alysanne… she knows this land, these people. She knows how to speak to them, how to move among them. That is not something you can learn in a few weeks.”

Y/N felt the sting of his words, but she masked it with another smile, her eyes flashing. “Perhaps,” she conceded, “but I have learned much in a short time. And I am still learning, Lord Stark. Every day.”

Cregan nodded, as if considering her words. “Then learn, Princess,” he said quietly. “But do not think you must compete with Alysanne. She is… unique, yes. But so are you.”

The words were meant to placate, to soothe, but they only made her feel more cornered.

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The doors to the great hall swung open with a loud creak, and a chill wind swept in, carrying with it the scent of snow and iron. Y/N turned, her eyes narrowing as she saw the commotion. Cregan Stark had returned, his presence commanding attention even as he limped slightly, his dark hair damp with sweat, his face streaked with mud and blood. His men flanked him, some of them leaning on one another, their expressions grim, their clothes stained with the same mixture of dirt and crimson.

Her heart lurched at the sight, but she quickly schooled her features into a mask of cool indifference. The skirmishes with the wildlings had been growing more frequent, their raids bolder, and it seemed today had been no different. The maesters were already scrambling, rushing forward with their apprentices and assistants, trying to assess the most grievous injuries, their faces set in strained concentration.

Y/N took in the scene with a practiced eye, her mind already calculating. There were too many injured, too much blood soaking into the stone floor of the hall. She could see that the maesters were stretched thin, their resources and patience fraying at the edges. Cregan, of course, was insisting on helping his men, despite the fact that he was clearly favoring his left leg, a nasty gash visible on his right thigh, and his arm hung a little too limply at his side.

Typical. The man was as stubborn as a mule.

She moved closer, catching sight of the way he clenched his jaw against the pain, his brow furrowed in a way that made him look older, wearier. He was trying to wave off a young apprentice who was attempting to guide him toward a bench.

“I’m fine,” he growled, his voice low and rough. “See to the others first.”

The apprentice looked helplessly at Cregan, clearly torn between obeying the Warden of the North and following the orders of the maesters. Y/N, sensing an opportunity, pushed through the crowd, her chin tilted upward, her eyes sharp.

“Really, Lord Stark?” she called out, her voice loud enough to carry over the clamor. “You look about as fine as a roast pig on a spit.”

Cregan’s head snapped around, his eyes narrowing at her. “Princess,” he said, his voice edged with irritation, “this is no place for jesting.”

She smiled, a sharp, knowing smile. “No, but it is a place for common sense. Something you seem to be sorely lacking at the moment.” She turned to the apprentice and gestured toward the other men. “Go. Help the others. I’ll take care of your lord.”

The apprentice hesitated for a moment, glancing between them, but then scurried off, clearly relieved to be free of Cregan’s stubbornness. Y/N stepped closer, folding her arms over her chest, her gaze fixed on the injured lord.

Cregan grunted, his expression darkening. “I don’t need your help, Princess. I’ve had worse than this.”

“Oh, I’m sure you have,” she replied. “But forgive me if I don’t trust your judgment on your own health, seeing as you’re bleeding all over the floor and insisting you’re perfectly fine. Very lordly of you, I’m sure, but also incredibly stupid.”

He scowled at her, a deep line forming between his brows. “I can take care of myself.”

“And yet,” she countered, stepping even closer, “you’re not doing a very good job of it, are you? Sit down, Cregan, before you fall down and make an even bigger fool of yourself.”

For a moment, he looked like he might argue further, but then he winced, a flash of pain crossing his face, and Y/N seized the moment. She reached out, gripping his uninjured arm with a strength that belied her slender frame, and guided him toward a nearby bench. “Sit,” she ordered, her voice firm, and to her surprise, he obeyed, albeit reluctantly.

He dropped onto the bench with a huff, glaring up at her. “I don’t need a nursemaid, least of all a princess from the South who’s never seen a real fight.���

She laughed, a sharp, sarcastic sound. “You’re right, I’ve never fought wildlings or raiders. But I have spent plenty of time in the Red Keep watching men bleed out because they were too stubborn to accept help. So, unless you want to be one of those men, shut up and let me work.”

His gaze flickered with something between annoyance and grudging respect. “Fine,” he muttered, “but make it quick. I have men to see to.”

“Quick?” She snorted. “You don’t give orders here, Stark. Not while you’re under my care.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Your care? And what makes you think you’re qualified?”

She didn’t answer with words. Instead, she grabbed a nearby cloth, soaked it in a basin of water, and began to clean the wound on his thigh with swift, precise movements. Cregan hissed through his teeth, his muscles tensing beneath her hands, but he didn’t pull away.

“I’ve shadowed Grand Maester Orwyle countless times,” she said as she worked, her voice steady. “I know what I’m doing. And more importantly, I’m not about to let you bleed out just because you’re too pigheaded to admit you need help.”

He grunted again but said nothing, his jaw clenched tight. She could see the pain in his eyes, the way his shoulders stiffened with each touch, but he stayed still, letting her do her work. She carefully cleaned the wound, her hands moving with a skill that surprised even herself, then reached for a needle and thread.

“This will hurt,” she warned, threading the needle with practiced ease.

“I’ve had worse,” he replied through gritted teeth.

“Of course you have,” she said, rolling her eyes. “And I’m sure you’ll tell me all about it after I’ve saved your life.”

His lips twitched, almost as if he were fighting a smile. “You’ve a sharp tongue, Princess.”

“And you’ve a thick skull, Lord Stark,” she shot back. “Now hold still.”

She began to stitch the wound, her needle moving with swift, precise strokes. Cregan watched her, his eyes dark and intense, but she didn’t falter. For once, she was not the southern courtier, the diplomatic princess with honeyed words and gentle smiles. She was herself, sharp and unyielding, meeting his stubbornness with her own.

When she finished, she tied off the thread with a quick, efficient knot and sat back, wiping her hands on the cloth. “There,” she said, satisfaction in her voice. “You’ll live to fight another day.”

He stared at her, a mix of surprise and grudging admiration in his eyes. “You did well,” he said finally, his voice softer than before.

She arched an eyebrow, a playful smirk dancing on her lips. “Was there ever any doubt?”

He chuckled, the sound rough but genuine. “Plenty,” he admitted.

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Winter is coming.

No, not the Stark words, spoken like a prayer or a warning. Winter is truly coming, and Y/N can feel it deep in her bones, creeping through the stone walls of Winterfell like a living thing.

The air has grown sharper, biting at her cheeks with every gust of wind, and the snow falls thicker now, each flake heavy and deliberate. The trees are bare, their branches skeletal against the grey sky, and the cold seems to press down on her, seeping into her skin with a relentless chill. It is a different kind of cold than she has ever known, a cold that seeps into her lungs and settles there, making each breath feel like an effort.

The North has always been harsh, but now it feels like it is preparing for something more—something darker, more unforgiving. Even the men and women of Winterfell, who have spent their entire lives in the shadow of winter, seem more guarded, more wary. There are murmurs in the great hall, anxious whispers in the corridors. Wildlings have been sighted more frequently, their numbers growing bolder and more desperate as the long night approaches. The skirmishes along the Wall have increased, and the night fires are lit earlier and burn longer.

Y/N pulls her cloak tighter around her shoulders as she crosses the courtyard, the snow crunching beneath her boots. She knows what is coming. She can feel it in the very marrow of her bones. Winter is coming, and with it, something more—a tension that hangs in the air like a drawn bowstring, taut and ready to snap.

That night, as she sits by the fire in her chambers, a raven arrives. The black bird flutters through the window, its wings dusted with snow, a rolled parchment tied to its leg. Y/N takes it with a frown, untying the message with cold fingers, her eyes narrowing as she recognizes the seal. Hightower.

She unfurls the parchment and reads the message, her eyes scanning the words with a growing sense of unease.

Return to King’s Landing at once.

The words are simple, direct, and she can almost hear Otto’s voice behind them, calm but commanding. He has received reports of the incoming long winter, of the increasing sightings of wildlings, and he deems it no longer safe for her to remain in the North. He urges her to leave before the roads become impassable, before the snows deepen and the wildlings grow more desperate.

Y/N exhales slowly, a plume of breath escaping her lips in the cold air of her chamber. She should feel relieved. Glad, even. No longer required to linger in this frozen wasteland, where the people are as hard as the ground they walk on, and her plans have slowly unraveled like thread from a worn tapestry. She should be glad to return to the South, to the warmth and intrigue of King’s Landing, where the games are played on her terms.

But instead, she feels a sharp sting of frustration. She berates herself for failing to secure the North for her family, for not weaving a strong enough web to catch the loyalty of these proud, stubborn people. A true Targaryen, she should have bent them to her will, but the North is as unyielding as its lord, and she has not succeeded in making it hers. It is a bitter pill to swallow.

“Failure,” she murmurs, her voice a low hiss in the dim light of her chamber. “And what would you say to that, Lord Hand? That your granddaughter, for all her cleverness, could not win the North?”

She lets out a soft, mirthless laugh, crumpling the parchment in her hand. “It’s a matter for another day,” she tells herself. She will return to King's Landing, regroup, plot anew. There are always other pieces to play, other moves to make.

Yet, her thoughts drift back to Cregan Stark. The brooding wolf of the North, with his grim expression and unyielding sense of honor. She won’t admit, even to herself, that she is fond of him. Or likes him. Or anything of the sort. No, certainly not. But… there is something about him that lingers in her mind like a half-remembered dream, something she can’t quite shake off.

After being surrounded by the snakes of King’s Landing, the liars and flatterers, the power-hungry and the depraved, she finds something strangely compelling in Cregan Stark’s righteousness. It comes to him as naturally as breathing, as naturally as wielding that massive Valyrian steel sword of his, the one he calls Ice.

She has seen him wield it with ease, watched him cleave through the air with a power that seems almost otherworldly. She has watched him ride out with his men, fearless and unyielding, his face set in determination. There is a strength in him that is not just physical, but something deeper, something that runs to his very core. A strength that does not waver, that does not bend, even under the weight of the North’s endless cold.

And she hates it. She hates how it seems to make everything about him… uncomplicated. How he carries his honor like a shield, how he speaks his truth without hesitation, without guile, as if the very concept of deception is foreign to him. It is infuriating. It is intriguing. And it has left a mark on her, whether she likes it or not.

Y/N folds the letter and tucks it into the folds of her gown, her fingers lingering on the soft fabric for a moment longer than necessary. She knows what she must do; her place is back in the South. But as she rises to her feet, her eyes drift around her room, taking in the rough-hewn walls, the cold stone floor, and the fur pelts draped across her bed. There is a part of her—small, quiet, but undeniably present—that resents leaving this place. Resents leaving him behind.

She sighs, pushing the thought away, and begins to gather what little she had brought with her. No handmaiden to help her, not that she would ask. She has always preferred to do things herself when it comes down to it. She moves about the room with a swift efficiency, her hands quick and sure as she folds her scarves, places them neatly in her travel bag.

She is in the midst of folding a deep green scarf, the color of pine needles, when a knock sounds at her door. She freezes, her fingers still gripping the fabric, and for a moment, she considers ignoring it. But then she rolls her eyes at her own hesitation and strides to the door, swinging it open.

Cregan Stark stands on the other side, looking as rugged and battered as ever. There is a bandage wrapped around his arm, another at his side, but he stands tall, his posture straight, his face unreadable. He looks better than he had when she had tended to him earlier, but not by much. His grey eyes flick to her, and she can’t quite read the expression in them.

“Lord Stark,” she greets, her voice carefully neutral. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

He inclines his head slightly. “I came to thank you,” he says, his voice low and gruff. “For earlier. For tending to my wounds.”

She raises an eyebrow, surprised. “Oh? Didn’t think you’d bother with gratitude.”

He snorts softly. “I’m not so stubborn as to ignore a kindness when it’s given.”

“A kindness?” She smirks, leaning against the doorframe. “I think you’ll find I had very little kindness in mind when I forced you to sit down.”

His lips twitch, just slightly. “Perhaps not,” he concedes. “But you did help. I owe you that much.”

Her gaze softens, just for a moment, but before she can reply, his eyes shift past her, taking in the half-packed bags and scattered belongings strewn across the room. His brows knit together in a frown.

“What is this?” he asks, his tone sharper than before.

Y/N shrugs, affecting a nonchalant air. “I’m going home,” she replies, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. “A happy bit of news for you, I’d wager.”

He is silent for a moment, his frown deepening, his eyes fixed on hers. “No,” he says finally, his voice low and steady. “I take no joy in this news.”

She blinks, momentarily caught off guard. “No? I thought you’d be delighted to see the back of me.”

His expression softens, and he steps further into the room, his gaze never leaving hers. “Believe it or not, Princess, I’ve grown accustomed to your… presence.”

Her eyes narrow. “What are you on about?” she demands, her voice sharper now, a hint of frustration creeping in. “Don’t tell me you’ve developed a fondness for me, Cregan Stark.”

He hesitates, then, with a sigh, says, “Perhaps. Or maybe I’ve simply developed a soft spot for your relentless stubbornness.”

She scoffs, folding her arms over her chest. “Oh, do spare me,” she says, her tone dripping with sarcasm. “The Wolf of the North with a soft spot for a Targaryen? Is that supposed to flatter me?”

He gives a half-smile, his eyes holding hers. “It’s not meant to flatter, just the truth.”

She rolls her eyes, exasperated. “Right. And I suppose this has nothing to do with your other northern… interests?” She tilts her head, her voice laced with mock sweetness. “Surely, Black Aly is more up your alley?”

His face hardens slightly, but there’s a flicker of amusement in his eyes. “Alysanne is a friend,” he replies, his voice calm. “A trusted one. But you—”

“But me?” she interrupts, stepping closer, her eyes blazing. “But what, Cregan? Do you think I’m going to stay here in this frozen wasteland to be your latest curiosity?”

He shakes his head, his voice rising just a fraction. “No, that’s not what I meant—”

“Then what did you mean?” she snaps. “Because I have no desire to dance around whatever it is you’re trying to say.”

He exhales, frustration lining his features, but there’s something softer there, too. “I meant,” he says slowly, deliberately, “that I have come to respect you, Y/N. To… care for you, in ways I did not expect.”

She laughs, sharp and incredulous. “Care for me? Truly? You’ve a strange way of showing it, taking Black Aly on all your little adventures while I’m stuck here playing house with your bannermen.”

Cregan’s eyes darken, his expression turning serious. “It wasn’t meant to slight you.”

“But it did,” she fires back, her voice lower, more intense. “It did. And now, you stand here, acting like you don’t want me to leave, when all you’ve done is—”

“I don’t want you to leave,” he cuts her off, his voice firm, his gaze unyielding. “Not now. Not like this.”

There is a beat of silence, the air between them taut and electric. Y/N feels something twist inside her, something she doesn’t want to name.

“Why?” she finally asks, her voice almost a whisper. “Why, Cregan?”

He takes a step closer, so close she can feel the warmth of his breath against her skin. “Because,” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper, “for all your southern games and sharp words… you’ve gotten under my skin, Y/N Targaryen.”

She meets his gaze, searching his face for any hint of a lie, any trace of deception, but finds none. She swallows, her throat tight. “And what do you suggest I do about that?” she asks, her tone still edged, but softer now.

He glances around the room at her half-packed bags, and then, with a determined expression, begins to pick up her things, placing them back where they were. “For a start,” he says, his voice gruff but not unkind, “you can stop packing.”

She watches, incredulous, as he calmly folds one of her scarves and places it back on the table. “What do you think you’re doing?” she demands, even as a smile tugs at the corners of her mouth.

He looks up at her, his eyes twinkling with a challenge. “Undoing a mistake,” he replies simply.

She shakes her head, half-laughing, half-exasperated. “You’re very difficult, you know that?”

He grins, the lines around his eyes crinkling. “So I’ve been told.”

They stand there, close enough to touch, the tension between them crackling like a fire waiting to ignite. For a moment, neither of them speaks. The air between them is thick, charged with something that neither of them can quite name. She lets out a sigh, breaking the silence that has settled over them.

“My grandsire has called for me,” she says finally, her voice softer than before. “It’s more of a command, really, than a request.”

Cregan’s brow furrows, his grey eyes narrowing slightly. “Is Otto Hightower the King of the Seven Kingdoms now?” he asks, his tone dry, laced with a hint of disdain.

Y/N chuckles, a low, throaty sound that sends a shiver through him. “He might as well be,” she replies, a faint smile playing on her lips. “He certainly acts like it.”

“Seems he’s got a hold on you too,” Cregan mutters, his gaze never leaving hers.

She shrugs, a half-smirk curving her lips. “I wouldn’t survive a winter here, would I? You said so yourself, Lord Stark. Even Vermithor and Silverwing refused to fly beyond the Wall of their own accord. Those ancient, powerful creatures wouldn’t dare. So whatever lies out there…” Her voice drops to a whisper. “It must be damning.”

Cregan’s expression is unreadable, his jaw tightening for a moment. “I can keep you safe,” he says quietly, but there’s a firmness to his voice, an unyielding resolve that makes her chest tighten.

Y/N raises an eyebrow, her lips curving into a teasing smile. “Oh, how kind of you, my big, bad wolf,” she drawls, her tone mocking but playful, her fingers reaching out to brush lightly against his arm. “But how about you start with something simple?”

His eyes narrow, a flicker of curiosity crossing his face. “Simple?” he repeats.

She steps closer, so close that her breath mingles with his, the warmth of her skin brushing against him. “How about, for starters, you try keeping me warm?” she murmurs, her voice barely more than a whisper, yet it carries between them like a challenge. “It is awfully freezing here… Can you do that for me, Lord Stark?”

For a moment, Cregan says nothing. His eyes search hers, as if trying to discern whether she’s serious, or just toying with him as she so often does. Y/N isn’t expecting much—she knows the Northerners, with their prudish notions of honor and virtue, probably see this as a surefire way to eternal damnation. She expects him to laugh it off, to turn away with a huff, to remind her, once again, that he is not some Southern lord to be trifled with.

But he doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t turn away. Instead, his gaze darkens, his eyes tracing the curve of her lips, the line of her throat. He takes a step closer, his body towering over hers, and she feels the heat radiating from him, the intensity in his stare. Her breath catches in her throat, her heart thundering in her chest as he reaches out, his hand cupping her chin, tilting her face up toward him.

“Is that what you want?” he murmurs, his voice a low, rumbling growl that sends a thrill down her spine. “For me to keep you warm?”

Y/N swallows, her mouth suddenly dry. She hadn’t expected this, hadn’t expected the Wolf of the North to respond to her challenge with anything but stern disapproval. “I—” she starts, but the words catch in her throat as his thumb brushes over her lower lip, his touch sending a jolt of electricity through her.

He leans in, his breath warm against her skin, and she feels the heat of his body pressing against hers, the rough fabric of his tunic brushing against the softness of her gown. “Say it,” he murmurs, his voice rough, almost desperate. “Say what you want, Y/N.”

Her heart pounds, and she feels a rush of something she can’t quite name—fear, desire, defiance—all mingling together in her chest. “I want…” she begins, her voice wavering, but then she catches herself, lifts her chin, her eyes flashing. “I want you to keep me warm, Cregan Stark.”

His lips curve into a slow, dangerous smile, and before she can draw another breath, his mouth is on her throat, hot and insistent. She gasps, her hands instinctively flying to his shoulders, gripping the fabric of his tunic as he kisses her skin, his mouth trailing down to the hollow of her collarbone, his teeth grazing against her pulse.

“Gods,” she breathes, a mixture of surprise and pleasure washing over her. She hadn’t expected this—not from him. But he is relentless, his mouth moving against her skin, his teeth nipping at the sensitive flesh, his tongue tracing patterns that make her shiver. He smells of the woods and leather, of smoke and something wilder, something purely him, and it makes her head spin.

She feels a hot rush of sensation flood her body, a fire igniting deep within her belly as he kisses and nibbles at her neck, her collarbones, his hands sliding up her back to pull her closer. “I didn’t think you had it in you,” she gasps, her fingers threading through his hair, tugging just a bit.

He chuckles against her skin, the sound vibrating through her, and she can feel his grin. “I am good at playing my part too, Princess,” he mutters, his voice rough, raw with hunger.

She arches against him, feeling the warmth of his breath, the roughness of his beard against her skin, and something inside her snaps. She doesn’t care about the cold, or the North, or even the damned wildlings anymore. She only cares about the way his mouth feels on her, the way his hands move against her, the way he’s suddenly, inexplicably, decided to abandon his precious restraint.

“Oh, so you’re not a prude after all?” she teases, her voice a breathless whisper, but there’s a tremor in it she can’t quite control.

He bites down gently on her shoulder, making her gasp, and she feels him smile against her skin. “Careful now,” he growls softly, his lips trailing up to her ear. “You might just find out how much I’m not.”

She laughs, a low, sultry sound that makes his grip tighten. “Well then, Lord Stark,” she murmurs, her voice daring. “Show me.”

And he does. All night long.

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The next morning, chaos erupted in Winterfell. The dawn broke over the snow-covered battlements, but there was no sign of the Lord of Winterfell. Cregan’s chamber was found empty, his bed undisturbed, and his bannermen immediately feared the worst. The cold winds carried whispers of possible attacks, of kidnappings, of wildlings breaching the walls in the dead of night.

“Where is he?” one of the lords muttered, his voice tight with worry. “I saw him head to his chamber last night. He should be there!”

“But he’s not,” another snapped, his face pale. “And there’s no sign of a struggle. Nothing.”

Maids and guards exchanged nervous glances, and the tension in the great hall thickened like smoke. Servants hurried through the corridors, peering into every nook and cranny, while a group of bannermen began to search the grounds, checking the stables, the armory, anywhere he might have gone.

The panic spread quickly, growing like wildfire. Hushed voices turned into frantic shouts, and soon enough, a full search was underway. Every room, every corridor, every shadowed corner was combed through with increasing urgency.

“Maybe he’s gone to the Godswood?” one bannerman suggested, and a group ran in that direction, boots crunching against the snow.

“What if he’s been taken?” another whispered fearfully. “The wildlings—”

“No, he’d never be taken without a fight!” a grizzled old warrior barked, his hand tightening on his sword hilt. “Keep looking!”

And so they did, their desperation growing as each minute passed without a trace of their lord.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, one of the servants hesitantly approached the door to Y/N’s chamber. He hesitated, his hand hovering over the handle as if unsure whether he should dare to disturb a Targaryen princess. But with his heart pounding and knowing that all of Winterfell was searching, he pushed the door open.

There, in the soft light of dawn that filtered through the small window, they found him.

Cregan Stark lay sprawled across the bed, still deep in sleep, his dark hair tousled, a faint smile playing on his lips. His arm was wrapped tightly around Y/N Targaryen, holding her close against him as if she were the most precious thing in the world. They were entangled in the furs, his body curved protectively around hers, their legs entwined, her head resting on his chest.

For a moment, the servant could only gape, eyes wide, mouth hanging open. Then, finding his voice, he croaked out, “Lord Stark!”

Cregan stirred, groaning softly, his eyes blinking open in the dim light. He looked down to see Y/N still nestled against him, her silver hair a soft halo on his chest. For a brief, confused moment, he forgot where he was, why there were voices at the door.

Then he heard the shocked gasp of the servant, and it all came rushing back.

“What’s the meaning of this?” a bannerman’s voice boomed from behind the servant, and within seconds, the doorway filled with faces, wide-eyed and bewildered.

Cregan rubbed his eyes, sitting up slowly, his hand still cradling Y/N. He glanced over at the doorway and saw the crowd of his bannermen and servants, their expressions ranging from horrified to amused to utterly scandalized.

“Well, it seems I’ve been found,” he muttered, a grin spreading across his face as he looked down at her, still half-asleep beside him. “So much for a quiet morning.”

Y/N stirred, blinking up at him, and then she saw the small crowd gathered in the doorway. Her cheeks flushed, but her lips curled into a mischievous smile. “Good morrow, gentlemen,” she purred, propping herself up on her elbow. “Is there something you’re looking for?”

The bannermen stood frozen for a moment, then the old warrior who’d been leading the search cleared his throat, his cheeks flushed red. “Lord Stark, we thought… well, we feared the worst.”

Cregan’s smile widened, his hand brushing a strand of silver hair from Y/N’s face. “No need for fear, Wylis,” he replied, his tone far too amused. “As you can see, I’m very much alive. Just… occupied.”

The servant who had found them couldn’t suppress a grin, though he quickly ducked his head to hide it. The bannermen, on the other hand, exchanged awkward glances, shifting their weight, unsure of what to say.

Y/N looked up at Cregan, her eyes glinting with amusement. “Seems you’ve caused quite the stir, my lord,” she murmured, teasingly. “Should I be worried that your men are so eager to find you?”

Cregan chuckled, pulling her closer, ignoring the gaping faces in the doorway. “Let them talk,” he murmured, his voice low and affectionate. “I have everything I want right here.”

And as the bannermen mumbled and fidgeted, trying to find a way to excuse themselves from the room without causing further embarrassment, Cregan leaned down to kiss her forehead, his smile never fading. “Let them see,” he whispered. “Let them know.”

Y/N laughed softly, rolling her eyes. “As you wish, wolf.”

And with that, he pulled her back into the warm cocoon of furs, ignoring the murmurs from the doorway, perfectly content to remain exactly where he was.

[miupow]

I beg u for some crave hyuka thoughts pls 😥😥😥

im gonna end up making one of these 4 every member aren't i... first this ask and then one for soobin… i can see where this is going (i love it)

CRAVEVERSE ; werewolf!hueningkai headcanons .ᐟ ♡

cw ⸝⸝ sfw + nsfw hcs .ᐟ werewolf!hk (and werewolf!rest of txt) , fem!reader , no dark content warning for these hcs but general dark content warning for crave as an au. unprotected sex, gangbang mention, knotting, size kink, creampies, group sex, anal mention, possessive and protective behavior, pervy kai hehe

SFW ;

-> crave!kai who is the sweetest of them all!! has been so sweet and kind since he first met you, a genuine friend to turn to when the others are being so obtuse and mean :(

-> crave!kai who has the least control over his wolfish instincts though, both from being the youngest and from being only a half blooded wolf. he can get so aggressive if you piss him off, to the point he’s genuinely dangerous to be around.. he can’t help it though, and he always feels like garbage afterwards once he’s calmed down :( he can just crack. despite being such a sweetheart, you can’t help but still be a little afraid of him…

-> crave!kai who is always looking out for you! you can always count on him to tell you the truth, defend you, stick by your side… unlike his brothers, he loves humans, and by extension he loves you! such a cute silly human girl <3 so small and soft and cuddly

-> crave!kai who loves cuddles, loves scenting you, makes him purr like a kitty when you pet his head and let him muzzle into you!! is very physically affectionate and always giving you tight bear hugs <3

-> crave!kai who sees you as a person and not as an object. who loves listening to your stories about your life before them, who loves talking with you, spending time with you, getting to know you. who he falls in love with because of who she is as a person, not because of some divine instincts.

-> crave!kai who is babied by his older brothers, and he hates it so much though he never puts it into words.. he’s tired of being treated like he’s a stupid pup, he’s a man!! and you make him feel so manly when he provides and takes care of you…

-> crave!kai whos personality takes a complete 180 if he’s ever set off, possessive or jealous or territorial. a violent angry beast you don’t even recognize…

-> crave!kai whos overall ur biggest simp and ur biggest fan !! probably the most down bad just behind yeonjun lol (i imagine reader as older than tyunning in crave so take that as you will… tyunning x their noona kink will always be famous)

NSFW ; (under the cut!)

-> crave!kai who is still a juvenile in werewolf terms even if he is an adult by human standards. he’s not fully matured into his instincts or his powers, and therefore they control him more than he controls them . he hasn’t even had his first run yet by the time you come into his life, but maybe the pretty human girl always around him sets off his first rut cycle …

-> crave!kai who doesn’t know how to deal with any of his wolfish feelings! can’t help but be so embarrassed about how obsessive he’s become about marking, mating, and breeding, protecting his territory, providing for what’s his. he used to never feel like that before!!

-> crave!kai who needs to be held back from ruining you completely during his rut <3 first time he ever goes into rut he loses himself and hurts you!! and baby just feels so bad about it!! needs a hyung to show him how to control himself while breeding you good <3

-> crave!kai who has a big fat dick he doesn’t know how to use !! so big it scares you a little w a knot that’s even fatter , cums so much it gets everywhere, spills out from where he’s plugged you up and drools down your thighs in a nasty creamy mess

-> crave!kai with the biggest size kink in the world, who gets hard as a rock from seeing just how tiny you r next to him and his big broad frame.. he feels so protective over u :( even when he’s splitting you open while you cry that his cock won’t fit and he’s shushing you that it will, trust him, just relax! still so protective…

-> crave!kai who while being protective doesn’t mind sharing you with the others, likes watching you get gangbanged ruined from every hole n turned into a breeding cumdump <3

-> crave!kai who loves anal, who gets teased for it because it goes against his instincts but he just loves it so much omg

[averagemorrowindenjoyer]

LU headcanons 2

-Legend is really, really good at singing but will NEVER sing in front of someone. Except Marin, he loved singing w her

-Ravio caught Legend singing once but didn't say anything about it

-Time has a complicated relationship w Lullaby, but they see each other as siblings

-Warriors teases Time all the time about how he's technically older

-Everyone thinks Time is ancient. like, dinosaur age. But he's actually in his 30's

-If anyone found out Wars is Time's big brother they would probably think that Wars is older than the concept of time(the thing, not the person)

-they would tease tf out of Wind too probably

-Time doesn't even know that he can turn into a wolf. only twi knows and will not be telling

-if Time ever turned into a wolf everyone would be blind. that mf's pelt is BRIGHT like the sun

-Sky loves all birds. he would even love Kaepora's(idk how to spell it rn)annoying yapping ass

-Wind is scared of Sky's loftwing

-Time hates birds.

-Ravio and Legend eventually get married. They are hopelessly in love

-Nobody knows The Ballad of the Windfish except Legend and Warriors(and Marin, but she's basically dead)

-If the chain ever found out about Legend's bunny form, he'd never know peace

-Twilight looks up to Malon and thinks of her as a mother. the mother he never had 🫢

-Wild sometimes picks flowers for Flora

-Warriors doesn't know Marin isn't real and would probably die if he found out

-Time and Wind also knew Marin because they were in the war, but they probably forgot about her. they'll remember eventually

-Malon looks an awful lot like Marin. Legend's heart hurts tremendously whenever he looks at her.

-Time definitely volunteered to "give Legend away" at his wedding. I got this from a fanfic I read(I don't remember the name sorry 😞)

-Twilight misses Midna terribly and probably cried the first time he saw Wild pull out her helmet

-Wild felt really bad for a while

-Time recognizes Midna from the war and is flabbergasted

[artethyst]

~ Leaves In A Sky Full Of Stars ~

Eris Vanserra x Rhysand’s Sister!OC/Reader

“You know, I am High Lord.” Eris murmured against your exposed neck, “I could so easily decline the invitation-“

“No,” you grinned, moving his wandering hands to cup the ever so slight bump that rested above your womb- one that had turned Eris feral when it had finally made its hardly noticeable appearance days before. “We cannot keep it from them forever.”

“I can do as I please,” he retorted as you sighed, watching him in the large mirror you both were stood in front of.

“So can I.” You smirked. “You made me High Lady, remember? I have just as much power as you.”

“How could I ever forget…” He mumbled with a lazed smirk as you drank in the sight of him- dressed in fine maroon layers laced with gold, his crown perched lazily upon his auburn curls. He pressed a lingering kiss to your shoulder, his veined hand splayed protectively over your growing babe.

“It is only one evening, I am sure even you can tolerate that,” you mused, straightening your vermillion skirts and joining your much smaller and softer hands over his. “No matter how you feel on the matter, Rhysand will still be their uncle.”

“No need to remind me,” Eris grimaced, his feelings for his brother-in-law still very much apparent after all those years.

The two males coming to some sort of unspoken agreement they would remain civil for the sake of the most treasured female in their lives.

“Is Big Bad Wolf of Autumn afraid of my older brother?” You began to laugh as he nuzzled his head against your collar as one of his hounds might. “Worried he might castrate you for impregnating his little sister?”

It was Eris’ turn to smirk then.

“Bunny, if that is what will bother him, I can assure him I have done far worse.”

You rolled your eyes, a light blush on your cheeks at the insinuation of his words, softening when he spun you around to force you to face him properly.

With his slender hand angling your chin, amber irises burning an impassioned fire through your own, there was nothing that could escape him.

Not even the small pout that had come to rest on your full lips. The ones he had to fight himself not to lose himself in right there and then.

“You know I only jest my Love, I will behave how you ask of me. Anything you desire-“

“I-It is not that,” you breathed, eyes brimming with tears you could only blame on the growing flame in your stomach. “It is just…”

“Tell me,” Eris’ usually composed face flickered with concern, his sharp brows pulling together in worry, his senses ever so more heightened since news of your newfound state broke. “Whatever is wrong I will resolve-“

“I miss my home,” your voice was shaky as you refused to meet your Mate’s eye, unable to bear the hurt that flickered across his face. “I…I miss my family, and…And times like these just remind me that my child will not be raised the same way.”

Eris did not know how to respond.

He would have liked to think he had made you feel comfortable in Autumn- that his home was just as much yours than anyone’s.

That if you ever wanted to leave, you would tell him- not that you ever had to. He never stopped you from visiting, hell, would always accompany you- begrudgingly, whenever you wished for him to

He would never be like that sorry bastard Tamlin and have you locked away.

Were his worst fears finally coming true? Had you realised what he had known all along? That he did not deserve you? That you should have never accepted the bond-

“Are…Are you not happy here?” He could not hide the disappointment in his tone. “If you wish to leave-“

“No, Eris,” your tears began to fall at the sight of him- so vulnerable, thinking that he could never be enough for you. “That is not what I mean I…I never wish to be apart from you again, you…You are my true home.” You felt worse when he began to comfort you, sending waves of love down the bond as he gently thumbed circles into your lower back, his gestures more delicate than ever since your pregnancy.

“Whatever you want, Bunny, I will ensure you have it,” his words were sincere and you couldn’t help but break into small sobs, knowing just how far he would go- the things he would sacrifice for you.

It might have terrified you once, but now you understood why. You understood because you would do the same for him.

“I just…I just wish things were different,” you knew he had been trying, that your brother had too, but tensions were still rife amongst the courts. With loyalist Advisors Eris had yet to wheedle out and men like Keir who respected your husband than his own High Lord, politics were never simple. “O-Our child will not be brought up with same customs, attend school with their cousins-“

“If that is what you wish who is to deny you, High-Lady?” You couldn’t help but laugh through your tears, melting into your husband’s arms as though his muscled chest was the only salvation from the rest of Prythian.

“No I…I-I want them to know of their heritage- this heritage. To be part of their own Court’s customs…Be like their father,” Eris couldn’t help the way his own heart tightened at that, having to remind himself if not by anyone else, you were proud of him. “I just…I just wish we could have both…”

“Who says we cannot, hmmm?” He wiped away your tears, thumb lingering beneath your glittering eye, the ones it had only taken him one look in to be hooked on for the rest of his breathing days. “I shall see to it we spend a quarter of our year in Velaris. We will have a family residence where our children will be able to live freely in such a place that is theirs too to call home.”

You noticed the way he had said children.

Plural.

Despite his anxieties, he subconsciously was hoping for more.

“B-But what about you? Your duties-”

“My Love, why do you think I have delegates? And what else is Lucien useful for if not performing tasks that are below me?” You scoffed at that as he chuckled, tucking a stray curl lovingly behind your ear.

And no matter how unsettled he felt in Night- the stares that would follow him, the distrust certain members of yours- now his by proxy, family still scathingly looked upon him with, he would stomach it.

He would compromise anything- everything to ensure your happiness.

“Is residing in my old apartment no longer good enough for you?” You let out, trying to lighten the mood. Chin coming to rest at his sternum, reminiscing of the times when the only way to see him was to sneak him through the wards of your private quarters.

“My darling, I would buy every property in that wretched place if it would bring back your smile.”

You poked him in the ribs as he groaned.

“You just wish to show off your riches and have us live in a grander estate than my brother’s…On his own land.”

“You know me too well, My Love.”

And so that night, when you broke the news, with happy tears from Feyre and Cassian, drunken squeals from Mor (who had already known) and crushing embraces from Azriel and even Nesta, Rhysand did not have the heart to slight Eris.

And in return, neither did your Mate.

A warm smile on his hardened face as you tried to explain to a babbling Nyx- who couldn’t understand a thing, that he was to have a cousin. Watching you flourish with a new glow, surrounded by your family- surrounded by love in your childhood home.

Your home which you had opened to him.

[colourstreakgryffin]

since the shinazugawa brothers are my skrunklywunklybadopsies can i request a softyan!platonic!Sanemi and Genya hcs with a littlesister!reader who's mitsuri's tsuguko, basically a total sweetheart and proof that life is easier when your drop-dead gorgeous and have a fuckload of suitors but god had to be fair and make her a literal dumbass 😭+ tell me that Sanemi the type of brother to scare the everloving crap out of any dude that flirts with his sister

(anyways hope u become the most fabulous bitch around with a smoking hot partner who's like iguro and fat stacks of cash 💕💕😍😙)

Abkwiejsndjsk. I want Obanai so bad, don’t remind me. Leee criiiii, but anyway. Sanemi and Genya, right? Okay, I’ll try to the best of my capabilities for you, darling!

Yandere! Platonic! Demon Slayer Scenarios: Shinazugawa Sanemi and Shinazugawa Genya

The Shinazugawa Brothers were already way too overprotective over you from the beginning, this situation has only elevated their protectiveness… they lost everybody, besides you. Sanemi feels obligated to be with you and Genya all the time as you two’s older brother and Genya feels required to guard you in assistance of Sanemi

Neither brothers were okay with you becoming a slayer but they couldn’t resist your begging and your excitement over being a slayer, hurting you in anyway is not something they’ll tolerate so they end up reluctantly letting you join Genya to final selection as Sanemi becomes the Wind Hashira

When the Love Hashira, Mitsuri takes you under her wing as her loveable Tsuguko and accidentally ends up bringing in so many suitors for you after making you stand out so beautifully, your older brothers flip their shit and almost try to pull you out of Mitsuri’s care

Sanemi and Genya have a very similar view on you. They both love you so much and they can’t stand you getting taken away by anything so they both develop a maddening obsession with protecting you from the world itself. The world is a danger now, and they both will make sure they won’t lose their only remaining sibling

Sanemi chases away the many suitors that try to woo you from the sidelines as Genya pulls you from them physically, asking why you want to be wooed by some weirdo. Yes, both of the brothers have been following you and stalking you as often as they possibly can with their sanity-destroying mindset over you

Genya is very clingy and will never let go of you no matter what, whilst Sanemi just guards you like a aggressive father wolf guarding his babies. To them, you are far too young to get a husband and because you’re a slayer, those men could potentially be trying to exploit you

The Shinazugawa Brothers are equally delusional over your view on them, they genuinely believe on a shared level that you love them dearly. They can’t recognise the way you stare at them afraid of their extreme possessiveness and overprotectiveness over you. You can barely recognise Sanemi and Genya as your big brothers

Sanemi doesn’t want either you nor Genya to be a slayer but he is attachment over you two has grown to such a intense degree that he can’t keep himself away from you two anymore. You are his life and love, he needs the both of you with him and he will do whatever he must to keep that

Your formerly beloved big brothers never won’t ever try to ruin your beautiful, cheerful nature by making you find out about their dastardly tricks as your optimistic personality, in reality, keeps these brothers teetering at the edge of sanity but neither can stand the fact you’re very dimwitted, despite being so skilled and incredible

Sanemi doesn’t only just scares anybody that tries to talk to you, he sends death threats and raises his katana at them. Genya isn’t as bad as Sanemi, he is just more touchy and shovey over you as he will never let anybody touch you and barks them away

“Dokusha, don’t do anything stupid! Okay? I can’t lose you nor Genya, my life runs on you two… just… don’t mess up! I will make that bubblegum-haired idiot guard you if I must!”

“Little sister! Wait! Why are you going to go on a date with that guy? He seems a bit dangerous… you should just stay with me and Onii-san forever, you don’t need a man anyway!”

[yorshie]

Bayverse Headcanons

Just some headcanons I keep in mind when I'm writing bayverse. Will probably come back and add more as I decide on them.

Leonardo

Height/weight: 6’2”, 670lbs

Theme song : Loyal by ODESZA

Ambidextrous but if he needs to punch someone he uses his right hand

Has a dry sense of humor, more little quips and witty one liners than anything planned

Turns into a bit of a caveman when you’re in danger. He catches you going someplace dangerous? Straight to turtle jail for 1000 years. You don’t wanna be picked up and carried to safety? Too bad, it’s happening

Is the King of small touches. A hand on your back, a nudge of his knuckles to get you moving. Mr. soft eyes and low voice when he wants to get his way

Still gets into arguments with Raph. Sometimes they still dissolve into fisticuffs.

References vines to the horror of his brothers (his fav is “road work ahead”)

No one will play Risk with him because even if he’s losing he somehow bleeds everyone dry

Has a gameboy with exactly one game, Harvest Moon: Friends of Mineral Town. All his animals have names like "Bob" or "Tilda"

can't cook, is banned from the kitchen, once set water on fire.

reads science fiction, fantasy and sagas a lot, though if you pay attention to his books the covers are sometimes swapped and it's almost always poetry or romances.

Not a big fan of PDA. Will give you a snoot boop or a chaste forehead kiss in public, but anything more is off limits. What’s that? You wanna snuggle? You better hope none of his brothers walk in because this turtle might panic and shove you off his lap in a snap decision instinct. You wanna go to his room? The scandal. What will everyone think? Fine, but he’ll ninja you in there. No one will know or see. Ninja silent. Except- Donnie will know. Donnie will see. Because he was sitting in the chair right next to you two and you both somehow forgot he was there.

Hogs the bed. And the covers. And the pillows. Basically if you want any bed commodity you better be prepared to snuggle

If you want him to watch tv that’s not sports it’s gotta be some older saga or classic that you actually have to pay attention to. Loves black and white martial arts movies. You once caught him hugging a pillow and watching Princess Mononoke with tears in his eyes.

Will just stare at the person who asked him to kill a little harmless spider before leaving the room

Donatello

Height/Weight: 6’8”/ 680lbs

Theme Song: Frequency by Tim Wolf

Left handed

Donnie is THE sarcastic little shit. 

He realizes quickly that while Leo has softness, and Raph is filthy, he doesn’t need to stoop to theatrics to get what he wants. He just has to make eye contact, tilt his head, and tell you in a calm, plain voice what he desires, and it works. 

Can’t keep his attention on one thing for a long period of time, or has to have multiple stimuli going on to keep focus. King of multitasking

The turtle most likely to curse

Can’t sleep without a nightlight and either music or a movie

Listens to filthy music when he’s working. 

The others gang up on him during trivia night to give everyone else a chance

the adrenaline junkie

one time he got Leo's tea mixed up with his coffee and he spat the substance clear across the Lair.

can cook but it's kinda bland. Can't bake to save his life, despite arguing with every failed cake like it’s out to get him: “it’s science why won’t you work??!”

hasn't opened a real book since the invention of the internet. Has a library of hard drives with the subject matter clearly labeled in alphabetical order. Mikey doesn't know about it and thus it has stayed relatively in order.

Doesn’t use his bed much, so the upside is you always have room to stretch out. Bad news is, if you want this turtle to get any decent sleep, you have to figure out how to keep him trapped enough where he can’t move without waking you up. And he’s a ninja.

Donnie likes to watch informative things. Like how it’s made, or unsolved mysteries. His crack show though? Cryptid hunters. He’ll laugh himself silly over people trying to trap Bigfoot or corner Mothman

The one that kills spiders

Raphael

Height/Weight: 6’5”/ 720lbs

Theme Song: Don’t Get in My Way by Zack Hemsey

Right handed

Turtle has a MOUTH and he is not afraid to open it to to get what he wants. Absolutely filthy when he wants to be.

Will turn into a little melted turtle puddle if someone is sweet to him. Doesn’t really turn to butter over words, but actions will get him every time.

Watches crocodile hunter and golden girls when no one else is awake. Loves animal documentaries, and zoboomafoo

Rough around the edges when it comes to heartfelt affection or feelings. With seduction he’s smooth, but telling someone he genuinely cares for them? Good luck stringing two words together my dude.

Prefers silence or listening when hanging out with someone. He’s slow with his input, careful with what he says. You’re winning if you can make him laugh

in the kitchen he’s either making the most disgusting looking thing that tastes fucking amazing or he’s grilling. Doesn’t tell anyone he learned how to make bread watching Julia Childe.

If he's doing something dangerous or something stupid, the worse thing you could say is along the line of "Leo said-" like, congrats, you just made sure he's gonna do the thing everyone knows he shouldn't. Flip side, he's trying to talk you out of doing something? Just sigh and say "ok, guess I'll go ask Leo-" Boom. Thing is done. Is it healthy? no. Does it work? yes.

Is the most considerate when it comes to sleepy time. He’ll make sure you have your own pillow, own blankets. He sleeps on his stomach and doesn’t move much, and is large enough that you could sleep tucked under the lip of his shell without fear of being squashed

Not the one to call if you see a spider. He will scream

Michelangelo

Height/weight: 6’0”/ 640lbs

Theme Song: Handclap by Fitz and the Tantrums

Right handed but if he puts his mind to it he can use his left equally for everything but writing

Is legally obligated to use cheesy pick up lines, and is a Talker

Uses lollipops and hard candy to keep his focus, bit of an oral fixation

completely ruins heartfelt moments by getting sidetracked. Can be giving the mushiest compliments then in the next breath go "so you gonna eat that leftover cake in your fridge or nah?"

Changes nicknames for you on a semi-weekly basis just to keep you on your toes and to annoy his brothers

Prankster extraordinare 

Can cook, but like the annoying ‘these are the worst ingredients to combine and somehow this tastes good and I'm going to sue you over telling me what's in this’

Is the best with understanding emotions and expressing himself. Yes, Leo might be better reading body language, but Mikey has empathy over why someone might react a certain way, not just 'if I do y then x happens'

Will push buttons to see how much he can bug someone

The one most likely to help you sneak out and get up to shit. Also the one most likely to get you two caught.

Makes up song lyrics when he doesn't know the actual words. Will change them to suit his needs, or how badly he wants to tick off his brothers. Not sure who would get the MOST annoyed by wrong lyrics on purpose, but you just know he has a different set fine tuned for each brother

His bed is basically a storage container for pillows and blankets. Which is good, because he is a serial cuddler, and if you need space to sleep you’ve got plenty of pillows to act as a body double if needs be

Loves soap operas, iron chef, diners drive-ins and dives. The more drama is in it, the more he eats it up. He and Raph bond over Golden Girls once the bigger brother realized he wasn’t going to get teased over it

Will pick up the spider to show you it’s not something to be scared of

[candycandy00]

So I thought I’d introduce the concepts for my JJK Fairytale AU. Some of you sent in some interesting suggestions, but in the end I decided to go with the most famous fairytales that would fit. I’m already writing the first one, Gojo x Cinderella. You’ll notice some of these ideas are more developed than others. Here are the others I plan to write. 

Please vote for which one you’re most interested in! I’ll write them all but I’m curious about how much interest people have. It might affect the order I write them in. 

Geto x Little Red Riding Hood

Reader is a young woman traveling through the dangerous woods to reach a safe house. This is a kingdom ravaged by war, and she’s a medic. She has medicine and supplies that she needs to bring to a military safe house to treat some injured soldiers there, but there’s a big bad wolf (Geto) stalking her. He was an enemy soldier she saved once, now turned into a werewolf, and hungry for her in more ways than one. 

Toji x Snow White

Reader is a beautiful young woman living in a small rural village. There’s a huntsman who lives close by (Toji) who is a lot older than her, but she has a bit of a crush on him. For his part, he thinks she’s pretty but also thinks she’s too young for him (she’s like 20, he’s late 30’s). So he mostly ignores her. He’s known for being an excellent hunter and gets hired to go hunt dangerous animals in the woods. The evil queen hires him to take Snow White into the woods and kill her, but once he actually spends time with her, he might decide to just keep her. 

Choso x Rapunzel

Reader is gathering herbs in the forest and stumbles upon an old watch tower inhabited by a cute but antisocial hermit (Choso) who seems sweet and keeps talking about his brothers who are “out” and will be back any minute. She starts visiting him regularly because she likes him, but she suspects his brothers might be dead and he just can’t face it. One day she gets attacked by a wild boar and injures her ankle. Choso finds her and takes her back to the tower. She faints and wakes up to find that he’s locked her in the top of the tower and won’t let her leave, because he’s afraid she’ll leave and never come back, just like his brothers. Choso as a classic Yandere. Reader’s only plan is to grow her hair out long enough to make a rope with it to escape. 

Higuruma x Little Mermaid

Reader is a mermaid in love with a lawyer who lives in a coastal town and specializes in shipping contracts (Higuruma). She makes a deal with the sea witch and signs the contract to get human legs in exchange for her voice, but when she formally meets Higuruma, she ends up showing him the contract. He’s flattered that she did all this for him, but (like in the original story) the new legs cause her terrible pain, every step feeling like walking on glass (seriously the original story was fucked up). Will this genius lawyer be able to find a loophole in her contract and free her? 

Sukuna x Sleeping Beauty

Reader is a princess who was cursed at birth. If she ever pricks her finger on a needle, she’ll fall into a deep sleep/coma. Her parents recently died, leaving her as the young ruler. Her first step is to hire a new captain of the guard, a mysterious and powerful man rumored to be a murderer (Sukuna). She’s instantly attracted to him, and despite her obvious flirting, he rejects her everytime, smugly saying a dainty princess like her couldn’t handle him. But when she ends up pricking her finger, Sukuna recognizes the curse, and knows that she’s still aware of everything, can still feel and hear everything. And the only way to break the curse is to fuck her. 

Nanami x Beauty and the Beast

Since multiple people mentioned wanting Reader to be the Beast, I’m going for it! That’s right, Beast Tamer Nanami! Reader was cursed by a witch to be a beast (she’s still cute though, more like a lil bunny girl lol) and her royal parents are ashamed of her so they banish her to a secluded castle. Then they hire Nanami to take care of the place (and Reader). 

[anitalenia]

━━━ .°˖✧ forbidden romance ⋆˙⊹

꒰ঌ definition ໒꒱ 𝑤ℎ𝑒𝑛 𝑎 𝑐ℎ𝑎𝑟𝑎��𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑐𝑎𝑛𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑜𝑝𝑒𝑛𝑙𝑦 𝑏𝑒 𝑖𝑛 𝑎 𝑟𝑒𝑙𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛𝑠ℎ𝑖𝑝 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑝𝑒𝑟𝑠𝑜𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑦 𝑙𝑜𝑣𝑒 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑠𝑜𝑚𝑒 𝑡𝑟𝑎𝑔𝑖𝑐 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑜𝑛.

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ below you will find sub genres under this category, as well as some useful pairings for this trope. for educational writing purposes <3

note: several of these can also be used in other tropes as well, just depends on how you write it and interpret it.

╰₊✧ ﾟOTHER LINKS . ྀི ⊹ masterlist | romance tropes |

taglist | prompt help | symbol packs | dividers page

꒰ঌ group one ໒꒱

teacher x student | rivaling families | rich x poor | princess x peasant | old money x lower class | two groups at war | monster x slayer | criminal x detective | bridesmaid x best man | both love interests betrothed to another | only one love interest betrothed to another

꒰ঌ group two ໒꒱

corrupt priest x nun | corrupt priest x church goer | assassin x person they’re supposed to kill | step!siblings | boss x employee | rivaling sports teams | parents don’t approve of love interest | different cultures | family doesn’t approve

꒰ঌ group three ໒꒱

parents forbid it | a friends ex lover | a siblings ex lover | queen x bodyguard | housewife x gardener | rivaling species | older generation judges young love | bodyguard x who they’re protecting | interspecies love | big age gap

꒰ঌ group four ໒꒱

siblings best friend | nobody likes the love interest except you | partners in a shared rank | relationships not allowed at work | rich guy x prostitute | boyfriends brother | boyfriends best friend | fem is the wife of a dangerous player | man x widow

꒰ঌ group five ໒꒱

teacher x students parent | man raises girl and when she grows up she’s in love with him | exiled man x village girl | laws forbid them | prisoner x prison guard | angel x demon | clashing religions | robot x human | alien x human

꒰ঌ group six ໒꒱

alpha x omega | step father x step daughter | dads best friend x daughter | love interest is “bad news” | friends don’t approve | husband x babysitter | popular x loner (cool x loser) | immortal x mortal | god/goddess x human

꒰ঌ group seven ໒꒱

zombie x human | light x dark | wolf boy x bunny girl | rivaling kingdoms | criminal x sweetheart | doctor x patient | destined for different things | celebrity x fan | celebrity x average person | pirate x bereaucrat

꒰ঌ group eight ໒꒱

rich bachelor x ‘average’ girl | chefs of rivaling restaurants | counselor x patient (this can be therapy, rehab) | loyal butler x married queen | queen x kings brother | cyborg x scientist meant to deactivate them | mad scientist x their creation

꒰ঌ group nine ໒꒱

if they’re together their powers fade / go away (if you’ve seen Hancock you know) | clan leader x handmaiden | lawyer x criminal they’re prosecuting | person on the jury x criminal | vampire royalty x lawless vampire

꒰ঌ group ten ໒꒱

vampire royalty x lycan prisoner | vampire cursed with a soul who can’t experience true happiness because of his sins x the woman he loves (if you’ve seen buffy the vampire slayer you’ll know) | orphan x headmistress / headmaster (obviously not a child orphan, can be a fantasy au or dark world / apocalyptic au)

will update when I think of new ones. hope this helps if you’re not sure what story to tell but you want something new <3

[hallucinatinghalos]

I hated the idea of Lestat being married in season three when I first saw it circulating here. But it's become a brainworm and I'm starting to think it could work. First off, it's been mentioned and is probably the reason the idea first came about, he's older than in the books and so there are more years between Auvergne and Paris that need a backstory. He's 34 when turned in the adaptation. In that time period he'd more than likely be married before reaching that age. When you consider that his family has a title but are impoverished. It's likely they would bargain him for a potential wife's dowry. It would be socially acceptable and possibly expected. Also, they violently denied him an education and priesthood, they denied him the theatre troupe for cruel and selfish reasons. Why would they hesitate in binding him to an arranged marriage for their gain? His wants be damned, always. It feels very in the spirit of TVL. I think it would need to be arranged at a young age that would've been acceptable for the time, as young as seventeen even. With her probably dying in childbirth, how soon and before or after other children would be born/conceived who knows. I'm guessing within five years of the marriage she'd pass, with around five years of him struggling in the lost state Nicki finds him in in the books, then four+ happy years in Paris with Nicki pre-turning. If he had been a father, even for a short amount of time or just an expectant one, it would make his failure with Claudia all the more encompassing without taking anything away from their arc. It also feels like you could make a psychological connection to him always making fledglings as a vampire to his wife losing every pregnancy or them losing every child. But that would be a leap, and more a head cannon thing. Ultimately, I think their life together would be short and if there were children they would also be doomed by the times or the eventual revolution. Ever plagued by loss is Lestat.

I can imagine the scene after the wolf kill when Lestat is recuperating in his room and Nicki comes with his father to present the coat to him happening still, but this time Nicki comes alone. Love instantly blossoming within Lestat, already a widower, for this man who is seeing him at his lowest but gazes at him as if he is an incredible, impossible being.

All of the emotional turmoil Lestat goes through in Auvergne, the vulnerability he shares with Nicki, would still be there but given more life experience for this adaptation's Lestat. His paralyzing fear of death more layered by being rooted in grief and loss as well as his anxiety plagued disposition.

The tragedy of him then losing his life just as he's finally finding peace and happiness would remain.

I also admit there are many reasons it could not work, like why would he have never mentioned this other important person (or children!) to Louis? But would Louis have any reason to mention it to Daniel if he had? Would it change the dynamic with Nicki too much? Gabrielle? Can they throw in such a huge change like that, and it not feel too off even if it works within the adaptation? But him being turned at 34 instead of 20 is huge. That's fourteen years of experience to be created. They have to do something and him hunting and hating his dad and big brothers (for good reason) and his circumstances for an extra fourteen years sounds less entertaining than an arranged marriage. There would also be an interesting nod to the books if they have him married off at 20 instead of turned. An unwanted marriage as a little death? I'm not all in on the idea but, point is, it may not be so bad. They could still make this part of his life have all the same emotional reverb as the book with a married backstory and I know there is far more there that this team could flesh out. So, if they go that direction, I'm not worried anymore is my point.

This is otherwise all pointless rambling so if you've made it this far thanks for hanging in there.

How about a side note since you're here? Could the painting of the woman in the coffin room, the one he placed overlooking him as he rests, be said tragic wife or just another thing he picked up cleaning out the NOLA antique shops? Could it be a parallel to Louis with his painting of Paul and Claudia's dress?

Please feel free to add to this whole thing or spit venom at it. I'm always open to corrections and new ideas and different takes. This is all just what-ifs for fun anyway. I may not respond just because I suck at it, but it won't mean I don't appreciate and enjoy your thoughts.

[ravenquingvax]

Thinking about Vax and Vex hiding in the woods as kids, knowing they're in trouble back in Syngorn, trying to calm each other down before they go back home when tempers calm down - maybe one of them accidentally broke something?

I'm picturing something like the cricket ball going through the window scene from The Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, The Witch And The Wardrobe.

Im imagining Vex holding a crying Vax, telling him it will be alright and trying to dry his tears as she rocks him.

I'm seeing Vax braiding Vex's hair to distract himself as Vex hums some lullaby their mother used to sing to them.

I'm picturing them making daisy chains under a big tree.

Their dad is going to be pissed, they both know it, but maybe if he has a few hours to calm down it won't be so bad when they finally go back 'home'?

Thinking about an older Vex, married with children, finding herself recalling that day when she finds out Wolfe and Leona have accidentally broke some priceless vase whilst playing catch in the hallway despite being told not to repeatedly.

Instead of running away and hiding from her and Percy, though, the twins seek her out immediately to tell her.

It's baffling at first, she would never own up to her dad if she did something wrong, but then she realises why they did it;

They're not scared of her.

They trust her.

Her children know she would never do anything to hurt them if they do something wrong.

It almost paralyses her.

Percy would find her crying later on and would ask her what happened after he calms her down somewhat - and, oh, how heartbreaking her reply is.

He probably just holds her for a while, telling her she never deserved her father's anger and mistreatment - she deserved love and kindness and support just like she gives her children.

And later, when the twins are adults themselves, they will reminisce about that day and laugh about how silly it was.

Vex will smile softly, glad that she was able to make sure that day wasn't spoiled for them over one stupid mistake.

And she hopes, wherever her brother is, he knows that their nieces and nephews will never experience what they had.

[miya-akane]

Hello I love your writing style (✿◠‿◠) and undead with a s/o that is related to any eden member of your choice

Undead with a s/o that is related to Ibara

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a/n:awh thank you anon! I'm glad you love my writing style since I'm a new writer after all~ sorry for taking too long to write your request 😭 I also choose ibara cause idk how to write others-

context:undead x ibara sibling! s/o

tw:none! (Probably very ooc-)

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❥ he would just know it

❥ i mean like ain't he's like 'knowledgeable vampire'?

❥ he may or may not have business with your brother before-

"(name) darling whose that on your phone? Why aren't you answering?"

"Oh it's just the idiot of my brother. He's probably asking me to do something again... "

"You mean Ibara right? He's your older brother, it's not good to ignore him."

"W-what? How do you know? I never told you my last name or something..."

"Fufufu~ You can't hide anything from this old vampire darling~"

❥ he's surprised at the very least

❥ why you never told him before? Don't you trust him?

❥ how did he know about this?

❥ well...

Ibara: "Kaoru-senpai! Could you give this lunchbox to (name) ? They left so early that they forgot to take their own lunch... "

"(name)? Oh okay. But what are your relationship with them? Don't you know they're mine?"

Ibara: "Im just doing my big brother duties... And of course i know you're their boyfriend. They talk about you a lot. "

"Big brother? Oh~ This is new. I'll make sure to pass this to them~"

❥ cue to him bugging you to tell him why you never told him this before

❥ oh my he is shocked

❥ like really shocked

❥ like what you mean that glasses freak is your older brother? (I wore glasses too-)

❥ how he know was kinda funny. It was on your date and you guys came across ibara

Ibara:"Ah! My little sibling! What are you doing here with this wolf?"

"Ugh Ibara. First of all, he's my boyfriend. Second of all, it's none of your business. And third of of all, it should be me asking why are YOU here."

"Huh?! He's your brother?! Hey glasses! They're right why are you here?! "

Ibara:"woah woah calm down both of you. I just taking a walk is that illegal?"

"Well it's illegal cause you're interrupting us! "

Ibara : "okay okay. I'll leave you two alone. But (name) make sure you come back home before 7 pm"

"YOU CAN'T TELL ME WHAT TO DO"

❥ he would the most calmest of them all(well second to rei)

❥ like totally chill about it

❥ how he knows? Well he accidentally read your full name and notice your family name is 'Saegusa'

❥ he won't bug you to tell him why you never told him this. He respect your privacy. But he will ask you one time. Just one time.

"(name) may I ask something?"

"Yes donis? What is it?"

"Is your brother is any chance is Ibara? Saegusa Ibara?"

"!!..Yes he is.. How do you know?"

"I noticed your full name while arranging somw documents. Why you never told me? You don't need to tell me the reason if you're uncomfortable of telling it"

"It's nothing really..! I'm just don't wanna people know like..would I be bombarded by his fans if told them I'm his little sibling?"

"Oh don't worry. I'll never let anything happened to you okay?

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notes:ahhh i hope it's not too bad.. I'm sorry I have no ideas on how to do this.. So take this with a grain of salt.. Undead is not my speciality 😭😭

[ganurath]

I believe I should send an ask to you sooo can you tell me about any of your interests? Anything about them, I’d love to know!

The various web serials of Wildbow, particularly Pale, are what got me on Tumblr. Pale is an urban fantasy story that started out as a murder mystery before spiraling roughly 3.7 million words out of the author's control. It has... a lot. There's a lot.

Wildbow's current web serial is a alternate timeline modern crime drama called Claw. Unlike Pale, this one looks like it may be as short as intended.

I'm also active in three TTRPG campaigns. My IRL group is running Tomb of Annihilation, where I'm playing a Reborn (intelligent zombie) Barbarian trying to figure out the circumstances of his death... And how not to be killed by The Campaign's Plot. The online games where I'm a player are a Changeling game set in New Orleans where my character basically is The Big Bad Wolf... and rooming with a senile reality warper and a mute banshee. Oh, and the other game is Invisible Sun, which is like my webcomic and/or fanfic reading list in that it's impossible to summarize.

I try to get at least some Warframe time in on the daily, as it fulfills my "numbers go up" cravings with less effort and more consistency than writing fanfic ever did. Recently finished building Protea Prime! I group up with my IRL D&D group on Tuesdays for it until recently, as we've switched to Deep Rock Galactic.

Recently got gifted a Magic the Gathering collection by my DM, who wanted to be rid of the cards, but didn't have the heart to sell them. He knew that I'd either do so or play with them, so I've been resorting my multiple collections (mine, his, and that of my older brother who thought selling wasn't worth the effort) to see what was playable/sellable. Found a fuckton of both.

My interest in xianxia is limited to the Beware of Chicken series, which is much better than the name makes it sound.

...Tagging this post is going to be a bitch.

[shebeafancyflapjack]

Still That Boy

Some Robin angst. Enjoy (includes cameos of my ocs Elysabeth and Silver).

-

"Rogh? Rogh! Rogh!"

He hears the rustle of leaves as she approaches, knowing she'll soon stumble upon his hiding spot. Part of him wants to run, not to let her see, but what would be the point? She's one of the fastest hunters in the tribe. Even with her belly swollen, carrying the latest in a long line of siblings of his, he wouldn't stand a chance.

Then there's that part of him that wants to be found. Only by her.

"Ah! There are!" She grabs him by the grey scruff of his furs and turns her to him; "Why?! Why you make Ma worry? Rogh not care worry bad for baby?!" She frowns and gestures to her middle.

The eight year old boy winces, his own guts twisting in guilt. No. No, he's watched Ma put enough babies into the ground already, when the moonah water failed to wake them up.

He sniffs, blinking back the tears still in his eyes.

"Me sorry, Ma." He mumbles, hands gesticulating, their signs as much a part of his peoples communication as their limited speech.

The anger melts from her face at the sight of her second born son's tears. Placing the spear she'd brought with her, just in case a bear or wolf had taken her child, down on the ground, she knelt to meet his eyes.

Rogh stood still as his mother's warm but calloused hands stroked over his face, smoothing back a ragged lock of his hair. Lighter than hers.

"Me thought you play game. Too late, time to eat and gather close. Rogh love bum and story by fire. Why Rogh hide?" She asked, gentler now.

Her second boy had always been more sensitive than his older brother and sister. But he was also a happier child, always playing and joking and entertaining the smaller ones by being silly. Rarely did he cry unless something had pierced that jolly shell of his.

It clearly broke her heart to see him look so uncharacteristically down.

"Come. Tell Ma." She smiled, chucking him lightly under the chin.

He sniffed and wiped his nose with the back of his hand. His mother tutted and gave it a proper clean with a loose flap of one of her pelts.

After a few breaths, he told her.

"Rogh and Tuk go find Shaman at Stones. We ask him to tell us future."

His mother's eyes widen; "Why?! That not for you to know! Only Moonah know what to come. He deny this, yes? Yes?!"

Rogh stared at his feet.

"Son. Tell truth." She commanded.

He took a breath, helpless but to obey; "He say no at first. Tell us to train to be Shaman if want to know. But we keep asking. Over and over and over. Then he get annoyed and tell us so we leave."

The older woman rolled her eyes. As wise men of the tribe went, their current Shaman was one of the weaker touches, in her opinion.

"What he say then?" She indulged, intrigued to know what news could upset her son so.

"He look at Tuk first. Tell us to cut hand and he dab finger with blood then drink." The boy cringed at the memory; "He say Tuk grow up, find new tribe, become great warrior. Make many babies. Then babies grow up and kill him in sleep."

"Oh. How Tuk take that?"

Rogh shrugged; "He no care, he say death in sleep after being great warrior good death. Children must love him big."

His mother hummed, guessing that wasn't the message that the Shaman had hoped the boy would take away with him.

"And you?"

Rogh wrapped his little arms around himself.

"Come. What be so bad make Rogh cry? No bum in future? Eat only berries? Mammoth all disappear?" She laughed a little at that, as if those great beasts could ever just vanish off the earth.

"No Mama. It big bad." He said, trembling.

"What then?" She sat down, crossing her legs, resting her hand on her sweet boy's face; "What big bad?"

He met her eyes. Big, round, blue as the sky, brimming with fear.

"Shaman say Rogh be alone."

His mother recoiled a little; "Alone? Ha. That crazy. He say you leave tribe?"

"No. He say tribe leave Rogh. You, Ba, brothers, sisters, cousins....He say they all go. Everyone go. He say he see Rogh sat in dark. All alone."

"Ptah! Shaman be smoking wrong leaf again!" The huntress scoffed; "Tribe never leave Rogh. Family never leave Rogh."

"What if me do something bad? What if Rogh make Ma and tribe go away?"

"That what he say? He say why we leave?"

The boy shuddered, skin seeming paler than usual. He sniffed.

"Me ask. He take more blood. Then he light tiny fire on stick and hold it to eyes. He look deep....Then he scream. AAAH. Then be jump back! Drop fire, Tuk stamp on. Shaman say he saw....H-he saw...."

"Saw what?"

Rogh swallowed, meeting his mother's eyes; "Death."

She sighed and forced a smile; "Son. Ma look into Rogh's eyes now. Ma see better than silly Shaman. Rogh no have death in eyes. Rogh's eyes fill with life."

"But what if me bring death? What if...Rogh somehow make tribe die? What if Rogh curse-?"

"No!" She held his face in her hands, firmly, "Rogh dipped in Moonah water when born. Rogh clean. Rogh blessed by good light. No curse touch Rogh, never."

The boy looked away, unconvinced.

"Rogh. Look at me. Look at Ma."

He blinked. What did she know, better than the tribe Shaman? How could she fix this?

"Rogh!"

The boy wiped his nose again. He closed his eyes, a sudden pain shooting through his skull.

"Rohr? Rohr, be thee well?"

....Who was that?

He opened his eyes.

Where his mother had been crouched before him, now sat a girl. A girl not much older than his sister, but thinner, frail, wearing the strangest looking pelts he'd ever seen. Her hair shone yellow, like Sunne, threaded with violet flowers into her braids.

Who was she? Where did Ma go? And what was wrong with her leg?

He startled back, grunting in confusion.

"Woah! What has startled thou?" The girl asks.

He opens his mouth to speak, same as she, but all that leaves his lips is a weak, almost canine bark. Where's his voice? How can he understand her when she talks so different to his tribe?

When she pushes herself to stand, he gets a better view of her leg. Mauled. Most of the bone below the knee exposed, clumps of flesh held onto the dried blood. How can she stand? How can she live?! He's seen cousins die quicker from wolf bites that weren't as bad.

"Rohr? Doth thou remember mes?" She asks, gently.

He shakes his head, stepping back. She must be some sort of demon, like from the many stories around the fire. Demons that come in the form of children, appearing sweet and innocent.

Even her smile is pretty, even if her eyes show a hint of sadness.

"I be Elysabeth. Remember? Your friend."

Ely...Lis...That was a long name. Too long. Just keep it simple, one syllable, who needs more than one?

Friend? What's a friend?

There is only Good Tribe and Bad Tribe. Family and Threat.

She walks...no, limps forward, stretching out her hand to him.

"Peace. It be okay. You is just having another spell, yes? Your soul got lost again, as Clarence says, 'member? Just take deep breath. It will return and bring with it thy memories."

Clarence? Who is that?

He darts his eyes around. These woods...they look different to the ones he was in just moments ago.

Ma. Where is Ma? He wants his Ma.

When he tries to tell the girl, only more bleating sounds. Frustrated, he beats at his head, grizzling as the tears return.

Ma! Ma! Come back, Ma!

"Oh no, no, sweet thing, please don't hurt thyself..." the girl begs, then turns her head; "Godric! William! Make haste, I need thee!"

Thump. Thump. Thump.

If he hits himself hard enough then maybe he'll send himself back. Back home.

Two pairs of hands grab each of his wrists.

"Oi, oi, come on mate. None of that now. It won't help none." A rough voice chides.

Rogh grumbles at them, then takes a look at these idiots who dare to touch him. No one he knows. Not his tribe. A tall, stocky man with kind eyes beneath a wearisome brow. With him, a shorter and rounder man with curly hair and some kind of long shiny shiv through his chest.

"You 'earin' them sirens, Rohr? They find their way into dry land to mess with thy head too?" The shorter man laughed.

Was he mocking him? Rogh bared his teeth.

"Ey, ey, peace my friend, I only jest. I envy you if it be true, those creatures make many a sailor see great beauties before their deaths."

"William! He clearly not be in the mood for japes!" The girl with sunny hair berated.

"There be no better time for humor than in times of madness, little Miss. Jokes saved many of my crew from throwin' themselves overboard."

"Well he ain't in danger of killing himself when he's already dead." The larger man said, still holding Rogh's arm.

...What?

He let out a cry of shock.

Elysabeth's mouth opened; "Oh. No, Rohr...There be no reason to fear."

No reason?! Death. The Shaman had said that he saw death in his future...

"We all is dead, brother." The taller man said; "We wander as spirits now, do you remember?"

No. No. He's not dead. And he's in the wrong body. He shouldn't be taller than the girl. Shouldn't be the same height as the man with the curly hair.

"How tables do turn, ey? T'was you who welcomed us into the hereafter, now we can return the favour. What are friends for, ah?" The rounder one was still trying to laugh it all off.

Rogh whimpered. None of it made any sense. And yet there was the faintest itch of familiarity as the voices spoke to him, as the faces surrounded him.

The girl reached out her hand to take his, her thumb stroking over his knuckles.

"Wes here with you, Rohr. Wes got you. You is safe." She tried to assure.

Her touch....It felt as warm as Ma's. How can she feel like family when he doesn't know her?

Even the men are holding him gently, just keeping him from beating himself.

The taller man even cups his head and brings him close.

"Listen to 'Lisbeth, brother. Just breathe. Let it all come back."

Lisbeth. Li...

"Lyth....Lyth-bee..." He tries, rolling the sounds off his tongue. His Lys-Bee.

Yes. He...He remembers.

"Lisbeth. Lisbeth."

"Who be 'Lisbeth?"

Rohr blinks.

"I think that's Elizabeth? He's mentioned her a couple of times."

Different voice.

The world shifts. The trees are gone. He's back in a cave except...this one is all strange. The walls are too smooth, top too high and flat. Strange objects fill the cave, along with strange faces. New faces.

One the face of a woman, tall and face covered in soot, the other face....Just a face. A head. Next to her knee.

Rogh screams.

"Oh dear. Here we go again." The head speaks. It speaks! Rogh cowers back against the wall, screaming some more.

The woman is on her feet; "Be kind, head bit!"

"Sorry, sorry, I've just had a few bad experiences trying to talk him through these, back before you joined us."

Rogh covers his face with his arms. No, no, not more death. Dead heads shouldn't talk. Just like girls with eaten legs shouldn't either.

"Row? Can thou hearest me?" The woman crouched down before him.

He nodded.

"You werest just sat muttering to thyself for a good hour or more. Can you tells me 'bout Elizabeth?" She asks sweetly. Patient.

Is she a mother? She sounds like one.

"Lys-bee....Nice girl...Lys-bee...Friend." He mumbled, looking around the strange cave; "Where she go? Where men friends? Who...Who you?"

"Wes your friends too. I is Mary and that be head of Humphrey. See?"

"Alright, mate." The head called over.

Part of him wanted to laugh as the initial horror wore off. A talking head. It was...It was funny really. Like when he would put his hands in the skulls decorating the cave and move their jaws to speak. It would always make his little siblings laugh.

His fingers squeezed at the fur on his wrist.

"Gotta go home. Children want stories. Have to help."

"You means your little ones? Your babies?"

His...? He frowns. No, not his. He's...He's far too young to help woman make baby.

"Said you had thirty, right? Busy bunny, weren't ya." The head said with a wiggle of his eyebrows.

Thirty? How could he have....

"Where are they? Where babies?" He asked the woman. If this was true then it meant the Shaman was wrong.

If he had babies then his future wasn't just Death...

The kind woman smiles and takes his hands; "They be resting now, dear friend. Along with mine own little'ens. No need to worry anymore."

"Have to worry. Me Dad. Dad always worry." That's what his own had once said.

How can we worry so much over babies he doesn't remember? Babies he's yet to have?

"You was good dad, that why. But yous can rest now, okays?" She smiles; "Your head just needs a little rests and it be right as the rain come morning light."

"Mary..."

Her name comes to him like a stab to the head. He grips her hand.

"Mary....Are Rogh's babies dead?"

Her smile drops, eyes darkening with sadness she can no longer hide.

It's all the answer he needs.

"No...No, no, no!" He shuffles away from her and to his feet, tugging at his hair as he stumbles away. "He saw it, he saw it, he saw it!"

"Saw what? Robin, what dids he see?"

He doesn't stop. Doesn't look back.

Doesn't question why they call him the wrong name.

All he can do is stumble onward, through the dark. Hands reach out to grab him and he throws each one off before they can catch him in a snare.

He has to go home. Has to find his way home.

This can't become his future.

Not all this death. Not all this...

"Robin?! What the bally hell is the matter with you today?!" A stern voice demands after he runs headlong into a taller man.

He growls. He takes a swipe with his claw and the man in green jumps back to avoid it.

"Woah, woah, Robin, easy now, pal." A softer voice tries to calm.

He whirls around. A shorter man is behind him, a strange yellow talisman around his neck, his palms raised up.

More figures stand behind him. More strangers.

"Is he unwell?" A female voice asks, trembling with concern.

"Was he ever well is the question?" A sour, older woman's voice comments.

Rogh raises his fists up, more towards the men than the women, as nasty as the older one looks towards him.

A hand lands on his shoulder.

"Hey, mate. You wanna sit down? Play some chess?"

He flinches from the touch and grizzles.

"Ooohkay, will take that as a no." The strange man with a very short and thin pelt backs off.

"Don't think he quite remembers what chess is right now, Julian."

"Just give him some space, he'll be fine."

"A cage might be a safer option."

"Thomas!"

"I meant just until we can be sure he hasn't gone feral-!"

Rogh roars. He roars as loud as any bear he's heard before.

"See?"

Shut up! Shut up!

They're all calling after him now, with a name he doesn't recognise, not the one his mother gave him. The voices overlap and become mindless, earsplitting jeering all around him.

Can't they all just leave him a-?

He blinks.

The house is dark now. Silent. Empty.

Furniture covered in sheets. No signs of life, not even from the birds in the trees. Rogh frowns. Where did they go?

Who were they? Why did they speak like they knew him?

He can't ask them now. No one is left.

"Alone. Alone." That was what the Shaman had seen. Alone. Death.

He wanders through the halls. Not even his boots make a sound. Too quiet now. He wants the screaming and yelling to return.

Come back.

Come back.

He beats at his head. Stupid. Stupid.

"Robin?"

The voice calls from the room on his right. He turns and sees....a mother.

She sits on the bed. Yes, that's what it's called. She sits and looks at him with worry, cradling a baby in her arms.

"Is everything okay?" She asks, keeping her voice low, having clearly just settled the infant.

No. Everything is far from okay.

He pants, walking towards her; "Got lost."

"Oh...okay. Where you going anywhere in particular?" She asks, slowly, carefully.

He rubs at the front of his shift.

"Home."

"And...where's that?"

He shakes his head; "Me no know. Me....Me forget."

The mother nods.

"That's okay. It took me a while to know where my home was too."

What did that mean? He frowns at her. Does she know him? Is he supposed to know her?

"You wanna come sit next to me for a bit?" She pats the space beside her.

He relaxes a little. Unlike the others, she's not grabbing at him, not lying that it's all fine when it isn't. Not scared of him, when he's the one that's scared. The one that's lost.

Rogh sits tentatively beside the mother with brown hair.

"Baby beautiful." He says, peeking at her. Because it's what you're supposed to say...but it's also true.

"Aww, thanks. Hear that Mia? Compliment from Uncle Robin for ya."

Uncle.

Does that mean...?

"You....sister?" He frowned.

"Well, uhm....we're family. Aren't we." She answered with caution; "Just leave out the whole incest stuff with me, if you don't mind."

He's not sure what that means.

"....Where Ma?" He asks. If she sister then she might know.

She gave him a blank look; "Is that who you're looking for? Your mum?"

He nods.

"She here. Then she go." He explained in a small voice; "Me made her go."

"Why do you say that?" 'Sister' asked.

"It what me do. Me bring death. Me alone. My fault." He spoke the words with acceptance, sounding almost detached. Numb.

"I don't believe that." Sister shook her head; "You're not some murderer."

"Me have killed people."

"Yeah but I mean...." She waved her free hand, the other hugging her baby close; "Not like...You're not a bad man. You don't hurt people you care about. You look after them. You're kind. A little annoying sometimes...Very annoying, even, but...still a good friend."

Good. Good.

She reached to take his hand.

When he looked up, there she was.

Ma gave him her most loving smile; "Death not bad thing. Death come for all. Came for your brothers and sisters. Came for my ma and ba. It come for me too."

Little Rogh shook his head; "No, no-."

"Yes, will. One day. Because that life, Son. One day Death take Ma and Ba. One day it take Rogh too. But that why Life so precious. That why we make Life good. Because it end one day. But that not curse of Rogh. That just will of Moonah."

His eyes filled with tears again; "Me had bad dream, Mama. Me dream Shaman words come true. Me....surrounded by Death. Tribe gone. Ma....gone...."

She tilts her head, tucking a strand of his hair behind his ear.

"And was Rogh alone?"

He frowned. Thinking back, flicking through his strange vision, he was barely alone. Not all the time. Not forever.

"Me had....friends. Strange, weird friends. Me had....Family. Different, new tribe...." he blinked and then smiled; "Me had babies too, Ma."

"Ha! Me tell your ba that you have many babies. He owe Ma new shell necklace." She grinned, ruffling her son's hair. "You see now? Ma tell truth. Rogh bless by Moonah. Rogh have big heart for big family. Biggest in all land. And Moonah make sure that Rogh never alone. Not forever. Not even with Death."

His lip wobbled as he looked into her face; "But...Ma leave Rogh....Ma gone."

"Silly boy. Ma never leave Rogh. Moonah is Big Ma in sky. Ma of all Mas. When Ma die, she go up to Moonah. And Moonah always stay with Rogh." She gathered her boy onto her lap and let him cling on tight, hugging her pregnant belly. "If Rogh ever alone, Rogh only have to look up, and Rogh see."

The boy nodded against her chest, tears spilling down his cheeks, chubby little hands holding tight onto her arm.

"Rogh always remember, Ma. Rogh promise."

"Promise what?"

He opened his eyes, finding himself staring up at the bright silver orb illuminating the sky above the treetops.

At his side, in the woods, sat a girl with funny pink hair, sat up on a mound of blue flowers shaped almost like a bed. She was rubbing her eyes, having just awoken from a month long sleep.

He smiled at her. His Moonah Girl.

"Welcome home."

[asexual-disaster]

‼️FHJY EP 3 SPOILERS‼️

all my thoughts of episode three

AS PER MURPH LOOKS SO GOOD

as does lou

Riz literally biking to school with everyone’s files to make sure they can make it through the year !! stop he’s so cute

and then you and Adaine are nerds

actually for the wizards I’m super chill

riz literally finding out what college they could all get into!!!

figs multiclassing appears to be undocumented, how would her bard teacher know that she multiclassed if she never goes to class

me and riz would write three essays each

the lone wolf. his record is not as bad as it should be

‘i cast friends on both of you just to get you in the car’

‘it’s a 10 and i’ll give you the help action’

‘fluffier than mine?’

LYDIA IS MY LOVE, MY FAVOURITE MORHER (except u sklonda)

‘you guys missed this, song of the summer! kids are going nuts’ ‘this emo song starts over the radio’ proceeds to play the hardest song i’ve heard in ages

riz making adaine her own folder for fun that he signed inside ,, i will sob over this little goblin

a dragon with a receding hairline

the thistlespring sex binder stop

gorgug is such an awkward little guy

fabian not knowing how to make food, stop my baby has been abandoned

‘a little hobgoblin with a brass lollipop’

sorcery teacher jace, i would die for you. ur the teacher i would fancy in school

big shoes to follow

figs bad luck continues

‘should we sign up for student government? there’s gotta be a cabinet right?’

mazey is a highland cow stop i love her

stop she’s a dancer, was she at the camp fabian was meant to be at??

‘oh you’re in the buttcrushers?’

she’s worse than kalvaxus

badidas

FABIAN IS OLDER BECAUSE HE WAS ADVENTURING WITH HIS DAD??

‘that would impact you as well’ ‘yeah’

‘i’m going to go to bard class, you’re going to love this, but not as myself’

im going to cast disguise self on myself to look like an emo girly

wanda childa

here girlie

porter is hot shut up

gorgug getting told he can’t do the mcats because he’s a barbarian. basically being told he’s not smart enough to do artificer classes because he’s inherently stronger, angrier and ‘less smart’ stop

im going into a worry

fig taking fabian to a wizard class because she doesn’t know where bard classes are

‘fabian, you said something alarming and it made me curious’

riz’s entire interaction with jawbone

Kristen chillis applebees

KRISTENS BROTHER

the way it’s never really spoken about how kristen, as the oldest, protected her younger brothers from her parents but she’s been gone a long time and she’s now seeing that. behavioural pattern continued to them treating her oldest younger brother the same she was treated

BUD CUBBY STICKING UP FOR KRISTEN BY TELLING HER PARENTS THEYRE AWFUL PEOPLE STOPPP

‘a hard couple months?’ ‘in the dark? where’s your god? he’s the sun god right?’

‘that’s what you think’ ‘bye girlie’

adaine realising she can’t even afford her school supplies now is so sad

‘what smell would be enticing to emo kids? maybe cigarettes and peach schnapps’

i just wanda’d in

they’re investigating all of figs disguises???

figs agent is rubens agent too fuck off

kristen adhd confirmed

also kristen deflecting all of her trauma with humour is so sad

‘maybe i could just have a tiny little religion of weirdos who wanna gamble’

cassandra i love you but kristen is a literal child

WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU MEAN CASSANDRA IS WITH KALINA

[sea-owl]

Little sisters Edwina, Posy, and Felicity terrorizing their older sister's stalker lover (aka the ABC brothers) is such a funny concept to me especially when I'm imagining actual little girls who probably don't even reach past the brothers' shoulders and haven't gone through puberty yet successfully bullying and cockblocking ABC like it's their sole reason to live. Then the BridgertonBros are tearing their hairs out because they are LOSING to a bunch of little girls. And the funniest part of this to me would be if Kate, Sophie, and Pen are slightly oblivious to all of the chaos and warring behind their backs like they know their little sisters are menaces to society but they are absolute angels who thrive in their older sister's affections so they couldn't be that bad, right??? And absolutely do NOT believe a word those horny Bridgerton men are saying about their precious little sisters.

Pfft this makes me think of an AU of where the Sharmas came to London early because they can't wait for Edwina to come to age to debute so Kate is trying to find a good match for her family. In an attempt to keep the Penwood estate in the Gunningworth family, Richard legitimized Sophie as the heiress, so now she's looking for a match in London too. Penelope was debuted early at 17 despite asking her mama to wait another year.

Anthony and Benedict are trying their damn best to woo Kate and Sophie at the balls. Unfortunately for Anthony, his reputation as a rake is coming back to bite him in the ass as is his duty as head of the family with Simon and Daphne coming up with this fake courtship scheme.

Benedict needs a better strategy than following Sophie around like a lost puppy. She thinks he's lonely, and since she actually knows his name without confusing him for one of his brothers, he's coming to her for a friendly chat.

Colin is sitting back, laughing at his brothers as he throws in his own matchmaking scheme or two. He may also be sticking to Penelope's side like glue claiming he wants to spend these dreadful balls with a friend when in reality he's claiming Penelope for himself while trying to plan how to best court her so there's no way she says no.

Enter 17 year olds Edwina and Posy, and 10 year old Felicity. All of whom are protective of their big sisters, and believe their sisters deserve better than some horny Bridgerton. Look at them! Those Bridgertons stare at their sisters like they're gonna eat them! They're not gonna take their sisters away!

Edwina believes her big sister deserves a love match, and no Capitol R rake is gonna give that to Kate! Kate may say she's looking for a marriage of convenience, but Edwina knows Kate is a romantic underneath. If only she were a year older so she may debute as well and she could truly see how these so called gentlemen act when they think no one is watching at the balls instead of only seeing them in their drawing room. One more year, Edwina tells herself. She has to convince Kate that she can help take part of the responsibilities of finding an advantageous match that way Kate does not choose the most advantageous of her current suitors. Which sadly for Edwina is that damn Bridgerton rake.

Posy also wishes she was another year older. That way, she could be at Sophie's side during balls. During their lifetime, Posy truly believes Sophie is the only one who truly loves her, and Posy loves Sophie more than anyone else in the whole world. She knows Sophie has lived an unfair life and Posy is determined to make sure the rest of her sister's life is filled with love. That starts by having her find a love match. Something she believes the bohemian Bridgerton would not be able to do. Love at first sight Posy's ass, that man is just horny!

Felicity has believed Colin to be a wolf in sheep's clothing for years, just waiting for her beloved sister to debute. Sadly, their families are too entangled with their mothers' friendship, Penelope's friendship with Eloise and Colin, and Felicity's own friendship with Hyacinth. There's no way Colin and Penelope wouldn't have interacted with one another. But it has also worked in Felicity's favor with their families being so entertwined. No one questions seeing one another in the other's house, and Bridgertons' prank wars have also definitely helped Felicity stop that horny Bridgerton's plan more than once. Colin is too fickle. He'll get bored and run off to some other country. Felicity will not stand to see her sister ignored by a husband after she has been ignored the majority of her life.

Edwina and Posy, who have become friends with Penelope and Eloise, also use the Bridgertons sibling rivalry to their advantage. Eloise loves messing with her brothers, so she's down for Edwina's and Posy's schemes.

At some point after Anthony, Benedict, and Colin ask for the parents' approval, they have to face the little sisters for their approval, too.

[glowinthedarkmouse]

a rough evening w/ azriel

A/N: hi!! this is my first attempt at a more angsty kinda fanfic? let me know how i did and if you like this one! these are doing better than i expected them to so i’d love to write more for the community. also, this one is like 3x longer than what i normally do soooo, enjoy!! :) WARNING: mentions of childhood trauma and abuse

Everyone bowed as the Inner Circle sauntered through the Court of Nightmares, taking their places around the throne. Rhysand and Feyre sat upon the throne, Cassian and Azriel stood guard in front of them, with Nesta by Cass and her by Az. Amren stood directly next to Rhys, and Mor next to Feyre. Rhys spoke with Keir momentarily, before announcing for everyone to eat. 

She felt out of place in the Court of Nightmares. The others wore blues and blacks, with jewelry meant to resemble the stars. She, however, was instructed to wear only colors such as champagne and eggshell white, with jewelry made from pearls. Mor told her she was to be seen as innocent, sweet, and soft, a lighter side to the court. She was also meant to perfectly rival Azriel, who was in his usual all black, save for a white ring on his left hand. She had a matching black ring on hers as well, as they were meant to resemble a yin and yang balance for the court. To show they were capable of niceties, along with handling its enemies in a swift and dark way, to prove that they were not a court to mess with. 

She must’ve gotten lost in thought, for the next thing she noticed, she and Azriel were dancing. It was a quicker dance, one Mor had taught her many moons ago. It seems as though the muscle memory stayed through the years, for she was remembering the dance without thinking much of it.

“Are you okay? You seem out of it,” Az murmured in her ear, not wanting the busybodies of the Court of Nightmares, who had nothing better to do than gossip, to hear.

“Yeah, I’m okay. Just ready to go home and take this stupid frilly dress off,” she softly whispered.

“We’re leaving here soon, love.”

“Good.”

He laughed a little at that, knowing her hatred for too much human interaction. He spoke to Rhys momentarily before leaning back down by her ear, “Rhysand says we can leave now, would you like to head home?” 

“Is that even a question, Az? Of course I want to head home,” she murmured back. He smiled softly before grabbing her hand and lightly guiding her out of the court, or at least he was planning to.

Until that bastard Keir calls his son grabs her shoulder, turning her towards him with such a force that Az knows equals a death sentence. The cheeky bastard smiles a wolfish grin, like he was the big bad wolf and she was Little Red Riding Hood, just waiting to be eaten. 

“Whoa whoa whoa, where's a pretty lady like you going with an ugly brute of a man like him?” he said with pure malice in his voice, getting closer to her and Azriel. He touched her long hair, before smiling even harder at the poor girl. 

She was in shock, for the way the male grabbed her arm hurt, a lot more than it should’ve. She stole a look at it and saw it was bright red and burning, leaving a massive imprint on her arm. She instantly goes back to when she was a young girl, when her older brothers would hurt her and leave similar imprints on her arms and legs. When they’d cut her long, beautiful hair because she was too ugly to have such pretty hair. Her hair was the last memory of her mother she had, before she passed from an illness that swept through the Illyrian camps many moons ago. She remembered her mother brushing and braiding her hair countless times a day, just from how much she loved it. Her mother had loved the freckles dotting her cheeks and shoulders in the warm summers. She swore her mother visited her dreams every now and then, brushing her hair and asking if her freckles came back every year like they used to. The freckles she’d gotten from her mother. The freckles her and her brothers shared.

She didn’t realize she hadn’t been breathing until Azriel lightly grabbed her other arm, threatening the hell out of the bastard son. She flinched away from him, only being able to think of her brothers from her childhood. Az released her arm, sort of in shock, as she’d never flinched from him like that before. He knew nothing of her childhood, knew nothing of the abuse she endured from her elder brothers. She stumbled back a bit, trying to remember where she was, before Az tried to move towards her. She took another step back, before running past him and taking flight as soon as she could, with her beautiful white wings. She truly did look angelic under the starlight, her jewelry dully reflecting the moonlight. Azriel went to shoot up after her, but Rhysand grabbed his arm before he could.

“Az, let her go just this once. She’s in a state of panic, and you won’t be able to help her like this,” Rhys told him mentally. Az kept a look of desperation on his face, wanting so badly to go after the woman he loved. A few minutes later, he added “She just got back to the House of Wind, Az. Go to her, but let her come to you. She’s been through more than one might think.” He released his grasp on Azriel’s arm, sending him a look of warning before the Shadowsinger took off into the night.

As soon as she arrived home, she went to one of the more hidden guest rooms, specifically the one with a small hidden cupboard behind the bookshelf, barely large enough to fit her small frame. The house lit a small candle that sat in a little alcove, putting off just enough light to keep the area from being pitch black. She had ripped off the tight dress on her way through the house, too upset to take it off properly. She managed to find a thin nightgown on her way to the guest room and changed, grabbed her cloak and went into hiding. This was the one spot in the house where no one could find her, for only she and Rhysand knew of the spot, as he had added it just for her. 

She brought the cloak around her body and shuffled into a slightly more comfortable position. She didn’t want Azriel to see her in this state of pure weakness. She was commonly seen as innocent and sweet, but weak was not one of the words to describe her. She softly sniffled, before curling into herself and softly crying herself to sleep.

Azriel barrelled through the doors of the house, silently cursing himself for making such a loud noise. He slowly shut the doors and walked quietly through the house, listening for any signs of life. His shadows searched the house for her, wanting to make sure she was okay. He noticed the ripped dress on their bedroom floor, instantly worrying about someone getting in before his shadows alerted him that they had found her, and that she was safe. He made his way to the room with the hidden compartment, which he went and sat next to (Cass found it one day, and is terrible at keeping secrets). He stayed up to keep an eye and ear out to make sure she slept through the night with minimal issues, guarding the room with shadows. He didn’t dare disturb her sleep, knowing how difficult it came to her some nights.

Morning came much faster than it should have, for the moment he heard slight stirring coming from inside the compartment, he silently sat up and opened the small door. Her legs fell out first, which he quickly grasped before softly setting them down, not wanting to push any boundaries. She rubbed her eyes before pulling her legs back to her, covering them back up with her cloak. They sat in silence, neither wanting to ask any questions. 

“You can have the house to yourself today, if you'd like. I’m sure there’s things for me to do elsewhere if you need the space,” Azriel said after minutes of nothingness.

“No, don’t leave me here alone today. I don’t think I could handle it,” she muttered softly, not moving from her spot in the compartment.

“I won’t leave, darling. Do you want to go lay down on the bed? There's no way you were able to properly sleep in there.”

“...yeah, can you carry me, please?” 

“Of course darling.”

He gently picked her up and grabbed her cloak, before briskly walking to their room, wanting her to get some proper rest. He pulled the comforter back before placing her down, making sure she was as comfortable as she could be. He went to walk away to go get something small for her to eat and drink before she grabbed his arm.

“Please just…stay in here with me for a while, I don’t wanna be by myself right now,” she said, slowly getting quieter with each word. He climbed into bed next to her, leaving some distance for her to decide how close they’d be. She instantly scooched over to him, softly folding her white wings around herself and his torso. He instantly wrapped the both of them in his much larger wings, knowing it would comfort her more. She started to softly sob into his chest, no longer being able to hide it from him. She slowly tells him about what happened when she was a young girl, with her brothers dipping their hands in faebane just to hurt her more. They didn’t possess the magic she did, so it never affected them. She explained the way they’d cut her hair, and how much her hair meant to her, especially after losing her mother. She told him of the cruel pranks they’d play, of the scars that he’d never seen due to a glamour she started using many moons ago, and of the vile and wretched things they’d tell her. She even told him of when she started to believe what they had been saying. She continued to cry into Azriels chest, letting out all of her pent up emotions. 

He just sat there and held her, letting her release all of this rage and anger she had been feeling for years. When she settled down some, he pulled her onto his chest and softly talked to her.

“Darling, you will never be less of a person due to what your brothers put you through. They were idiotic fools who couldn’t see the woman you would grow up to be. If they hadn’t been taken out during the Blood Rite, I would’ve seen to it that they paid for what they did to you. You are the light of my life, the yang to my yin, the one person I could never say no to. I love you so terribly much, darling. I’ll never let you feel less-than for what your brothers did. You’re my moon, my stars, and my entire life. Let me continue to show you this everyday, for as long as you’ll let me.”

She sniffled for a moment, before starting to cry harder, absolutely in love with the Shadowsinger in front of her. He held her, utterly in love with the woman in his arms.

Suddenly, something shifted.

Shifted into place.

Like it was supposed to be there the entire time. 

The mating bond. 

Just clicked. 

She slowly leaned away from him, making sure he felt it too. He looked back at her with a face of shock, but mainly a face of pure love and adoration. She lunged at him, holding him in the tightest hug she could manage. He peppered soft kisses on her cheeks while she slowly started to giggle, pushing him away. She leaned in and gave him a proper kiss on the lips, and he just melted into her, as if they were becoming one person. 

“One quick question?” she said in a more serious manner.

“Yes darling?”

“What was done about the man who grabbed my arm?”

“Oh, Rhys has him locked up far, far away, where he’ll never be missed.”

“Good,” she softly stated, “I love you Azriel.”

“I love you too, darling.”