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cheoliehansoliereblogs · 2 days ago

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🧸this is a review for @k-fic-collection 🧸

Consider this my live reaction while reading the fic

"no, i was up. are you okay?", he asks you, and that question gets you. you bite your lip in an attempt to not cry, feeling overwhelmed all over again. - so relatable, why is it that I can be fine without crying when I’m dealing with something on my own but I start sobbing the second anyone asks if I’m okay.

my love, - !!!!! The way I had to keep myself from squealing in public, omg

"send me your location and wait in the car, okay. i'm on the way” - swooning over this man rn

you unintentionally dozed off - unrelated (or maybe sort of related), but I was just laying in my dorm watching something last night and I accidentally fell asleep for like 30 minutes and when I woke up I felt so strange. It truly felt like I didn’t know who or where I was

propelling him to rush towards your location on his bike - the description of this literally makes it seem like a movie omg. I can literally imagine the scene in my head

"let's go home" - 😭😭😭😭😭 this is feeding the delusions and I’m going insane, that’s so sweet I can’t 😭😭😭😭

he retrieves another jacket from his bike. - he rides a motorcycle and he’s literally the sweetest man on the planet??? I can’t do this

brushing a stray strand of hair away from your face, tucking it behind your ear - this is probably one of the cutest thing a guy can do, I don’t make the rules

guiding them around his waist and you hold onto him now. - oh to be sitting on a motorcycle with my arms wrapped around Wonwoo’s waist. The dream, truly

his tattoed arm that was exposed - he rides a motorcycle and has tattoos???? End me

his hair that had grown into a mullet that was a little long and shaggy and fell over his forehead and eyes - i’m gonna die

he runs a hand through his dishevelled hair, the strands falling in an adorable mess around his face. - ahsjadsheowhfeuwr to witness that irl would kill me. Wonwoo really is just gorgeous and amazing

"i'll pick you up, just wrap your legs around my waist," - !!!!!!!!!!!!!! I wanted this to happen, but I wasn’t sure if it would and now it’s happening!!!!!!!

he lifts your chin up so that you can meet his gaze. - I truly have no words, I just, yeah

the world seemed to fade away, leaving only the two of you suspended in a moment of quiet intimacy. - that is such a beautiful way to end it, the words are just perfect

Overall, such a fun and cute fic. Like truly amazing and I loved it so much. The ending (both the actual and bonus) were everything and it was such a satisfying read. One of my favorite wonwoo fics for sure

into the night | jeon wonwoo

SUMMARY: when you call wonwoo late at night telling him you're stranded, he drops everything to make his way to you (and bring you home safe)

PAIRING: biker!wonwoo x reader

THEMES: biker au, established relationship, terms of endearment, comfort fluff

WARNINGS: speed, fluff, kissing, a little suggestive (only at the end)

WORDCOUNT: 3.1k

A/N: just another very self-indulgent fic. another biker wonwoo fic here.

the cool wind blows in your hair as you stand next to your car on the verge of tears. you really don't know how you ended up here - well you do actually. you were upset, overwhelmed from work and exhausted. you just wanted to run away for a bit, get away from life. but right now it seemed like life had caught up and was showing you the reality of your situation.

you pull out your phone from your sling bag and unlock it, your hands opening your contacts, your finger hovering over wonwoo's number. it was late, almost going to be midnight and here you were in the middle of nowhere because your car decided to break down. you wonder whether you should bother wonwoo tonight, having second thoughts, but your finger taps on his contact anyway, dialling his number. you don't think he is going to pick up after a few rings and you move your phone from your ear. that's when you hear the line pick up on the other end, wonwoo's voice floating in your ear.

"yn?", he asks, his voice tinged with a little sleepiness. "i-sorry did i wake you up?", you ask softly, looking down at your feet.

"no, i was up. are you okay?", he asks you, and that question gets you. you bite your lip in an attempt to not cry, feeling overwhelmed all over again.

"wonwoo", you say softly, feeling like an idiot for getting yourself in this situation.

"my love, what's wrong?", his voice comes through, concern laced in his voice and you can hear the sound of some shuffle on the other side.

"can you come get me?", you finally manage to choke out, your voice cracking, betraying your composure. "where are you?", he asks, his tone more alert now.

"i'm kind of stranded", you confess softly, and wonwoo catches onto the tremor in your voice, getting worried. "i don't know where i am, i was just driving and the car broke down", you try to explain softly, a lone tear rolling down your cheek.

"driving? why were you driving so late", he presses, to which you don't respond. you bite your lip in hesitation, unsure whether you want to tell wonwoo the truth or not.

you can hear him sigh softly on the other end before he speaks again. "send me your location and wait in the car, okay. i'm on the way", he says before hanging up.

after sending wonwoo your location, you settled into the quiet of the car, exhaustion weighing heavily upon your eyelids. despite your best efforts to stay awake, you unintentionally dozed off, unaware of the passing time and wonwoo's frantic attempts to reach you, the phone on silent.

in wonwoo's mind, each unanswered call heightens his worry, his imagination conjuring the worst-case scenarios, thinking something might have happened to you. it was unlike you to not respond to his calls. you'd usually reassure him with a quick call or text, but right now you were unreachable and panic ignited in his chest, propelling him to rush towards your location on his bike, each passing moment feeling like an eternity.

he finally reaches your location, finding your car on the side of the road with the blinkers flashing. with wonwoo's heart pounding with every step he takes, he approaches your car, his knuckles knocking against the window, startling you awake.

jumping up at the sudden noise, you blinked groggily, confusion clouding your senses. a figure stood outside, casting a silhouette against the darkness. fear momentarily gripped you until clarity dawned, and you recognised the familiar leather jacket that belonged to wonwoo.

with a shaky exhale, you reached for the door handle. as you stepped out into the cool night air you heard wonwoo say something like "thank god" under his breath as you stepped out.

"are you okay?", he asks, worried, his hair a touseled mess, falling over his forehead and eyes, blowing gently with the breeze. he looks you up and down, looking for any signs of injury.

"i'm okay, i just dozed off", you tell and relief seems to flood in his eyes. "you got me worried there, i called you but you weren't picking up", he says, looking at you, relieved to see you safe and sound.

a gush of wind passes, making you shiver. you cross your arms over your chest to offer some sort of warmth to your body. you stand there in front of wonwoo, avoiding wonwoo's gaze, dreading the question he might ask you about why you were driving out so late in the middle of nowhere. but the question never comes.

"let's go home", he says softly, reassuring in a way, holding out his hand for you to take, making you finally look up at him. you take his hand, walking along with him. he holds your hand gently but there's something comforting about his touch.

that's when you finally spot the bike - wonwoo's sports bike parked on the side of the road, making you turn your head to him.

"it's gonna get cold", he remarks, his voice gentle as he retrieves another jacket from his bike. he holds it out to you and waits patiently as you slip your arms into the sleeves, his touch tender as he settles the jacket over your shoulders. though it was slightly oversized, the garment seemed to embrace you in its warmth, a comforting shield against the biting night air. wonwoo's heart swelled with pride at the sight of you wearing his jacket.

"we're going home on this?", you question, apprehension evident in your voice as wonwoo zips up the jacket around you.

"why? are you scared?" he teases lightly. he knew all too well of your unease with riding on his bike, a fear you had yet to conquer since the beginning of your relationship. the whole thing seemed so intimidating to you, but wonwoo never pushed you to overcome it, understanding you and respecting your space. but tonight, it seemed like you were finally going to face your fear.

"it was the fastest way to get to you", he adds softly, brushing a stray strand of hair away from your face, tucking it behind your ear as your eyes dart around nervously, still grappling with the idea of riding on his bike.

"do you trust me?", he asks, his eyes searching yours for reassurance. you lift your eyes to meet his, and nod slowly. "then let's go home".

wonwoo sits on the bike, manoeuvring it into position. he extends his hand, helping you to get on the bike and take a seat. once you're settled in the seat, you can't help but notice its height and weight, a realisation sinking on what you were about to embark on.

wonwoo hands you the spare helmet he brought along with him, and you accept it, your fingers tracing the smooth surface nervously.

"okay, some ground rules," he began, his gaze turning serious as he turns back to look at you.

"hold onto me no matter what or else you're gonna fall off", he says, his gaze turning amused when he sees the flash of panic in your eyes.

"woah not like that, i mean, it's better to hold onto me you know", he adds, chuckling softly and you make a face, smacking him lightly.

"tap me once to tell me you're comfortable, tap twice if you want me to slow down and tap thrice if you want me to stop or you don't feel okay", he instructs carefully. you nod at his intrusions.

"okay?", he asks again and you nod again.

"words, i need words my love", he prompts and you finally speak, squeaking out a small yes, still scared about being on the bike and the corners of his mouth tug up in a small smile.

you watch as he puts on his big biker gloves before taking the helmet from your hands and placing it on your head, adjusting as needed. he puts on his helmet too and waits. you're confused and hold onto his jacket to brace yourself. he opens the visor on his helmet before speaking.

"love, you gotta hold onto me", he says, startling you for a second. "i-i-am", you stutter out in surprise.

"that's not going to work", he says and wordlessly reaches out his hands to yours, guiding them around his waist and you hold onto him now. "that's much better", he remarks, satisfied before telling you he was going to start, putting down his visor.

the bike starts and wonwoo pushes off, riding in the direction home. and fuck, you had underestimated the speed that you'd be going at. your grip around wonwoo tightens and he smiles to himself. wonwoo's grateful for the helmet because gosh, he was melting under your touch truly. he finds you cute, so so cute and all his.

he still remembers the day he first met you. it was at the convenience store where he found you feeding a few of the stray cats that he usually feeds. he'd just gone in to buy some food for them and when he came out walking around to the back, he saw you. you were crouched down as you handed the cats some food and watched them eat with a tender smile on your face. it's was only a few seconds later that you had finally noticed his presence, standing up in a rush.

seeing the strange man in front of you all of a sudden, you panicked, taking a step back until wonwoo spoke.

"you feed them too?", he inquired, tilting his head to the side with geunine curiosity. he remembers the way you nodded your head shyly and the way you took him in, your gaze lingering at his tattoed arm that was exposed, the sleeves rolled up a bit.

from that moment on, your paths seemed to cross more frequently. wonwoo found himself drawn to your presence, often finding excuses to linger around the convenience store in hopes of encountering you once more. you'd get so nervous and shy every time he'd come around on that big bike of his, wearing that leather jacket that made him look so cool and his hair that had grown into a mullet that was a little long and shaggy and fell over his forehead and eyes, making him look hot, paired with the tattoos that covered his one arm, he looked irresistible. and not to forget his towering height - oh he was hot.

it had been almost six months into dating and you'd still never ridden on his bike before, until now. wonwoo gestures his hand in a thumbs up, asking you if you are okay and you tap his chest once. he smiles, glad, but really, you were scared, hanging onto wonwoo for dear life. you feel his hand gently intertwine in yours to reassure you as he slows down at a signal. you sit up a little straighter now, allowing your grip around his waist to loosen just a little.

he starts up again, accelerating again. you clutch onto him a little tighter than last time, closing your eyes. the rush of speed and nerves overwhelming you. you tap him twice, indicating you want him to slow down a little and he does, slowing down at a manageable speed for you but still going at a steady pace. as the minutes pass, you find the courage to open your eyes, lifting your head to take in your surroundings. to your surprise, you realized that you were in familiar territory—the neighbourhood where wonwoo lived. with his home now just a mere ten minutes away, a sense of relief washed over you, tempered with a newfound sense of accomplishment for conquering your fears, if only for a moment.

the rest of the ride is smooth. once wonwoo reaches his home, he parks the bike, turns off the engine, mountings his legs on the ground. your arms are still around his waist, gripping him tighter than ever because the bike was now leaning towards the left since he'd put it on the stand. you were somehow convinced that you were going to fall off if you didn't hold onto wonwoo. he takes off his helmet and sets it down in front of him on the gas tank.

"you okay love?", he asks when you haven't let go of him yet. "yeah i'm okay", you manage out softly, your voice muffled through the helmet.

you reluctantly take your hands off wonwoo and move your hands up to take off your helmet. wonwoo gets down first, his height and long legs making it easier for him than for you. he takes both helmets, placing them on the small bench in his yard.

as you remained perched on the bike, a hesitation rushed through you, with the sudden reluctance to dismount the bike. gazing down at the ground beneath you, you tried to steady yourself, despite knowing there was no real risk of falling. with a nervous gulp, you raised your eyes to meet wonwoo's, finding him regarding you with a mixture of amusement and curiosity.

wonwoo shakes his head a little, letting out a soft exhale, letting his hair breathe finally. he runs a hand through his dishevelled hair, the strands falling in an adorable mess around his face. he continues to look at you, wondering why you haven't gotten off yet.

"need help?", he prompts. "how am i supposed to-", you trail off, feeling embarrassed. you manage to swing your one leg to the other side and now you're settled in a sideways position, holding onto the bike so you don't slide off entirely. wonwoo walks forward and wordlessly holds onto you, his hands finding your waist to steady you as you peer up at him.

"i'll pick you up, just wrap your legs around my waist," he says calmly, and you furrow your brows for a second before nodding in understanding. wonwoo lifts you up effortlessly and you instinctively encircle your legs around his torso as your arms wrap around his neck for support. his one arm supported you, securely wrapped around your waist as he held you up. the proximity made your heart rate rush and you lean more into him so you don't fall off.

he grabs the bike keys before heading to the door, unlocking the door with ease and walking inside with you, holding onto you securely. you admire wonwoo up close and gosh, he was so handsome and pretty.

wonwoo sets you down on the kitchen island countertop, his hands lingering on your waist for a moment as you look at him. as you meet his eyes, you can't help but notice how your height almost matches his towering height now. he gives you a small but comforting smile before his hands move off your waist. he unzips his jacket, taking it off, only to expose his tattoed arm as he slides the jacket off, making you gasp ever so softly at the sight. you'd seen wonwoo's tattoos plenty of times before, but they never failed to leave you in awe every time you saw them. despite wonwoo's intimidating appearance - for someone who looked cold, badass and was so buff, he was so soft, sweet and gentle. it was a contrast that never failed to captivate you, drawing you closer to the enigma that was wonwoo.

wonwoo's wearing a sleeveless compression shirt and as you look at him, it's slowly turning your brain to mush with the way it was hugging his body perfectly at all the right places, showing off his build and muscles. the way the fabric hugged and accentuated every sculpted muscle of his sent your thoughts spiralling in a whirlwind. you have to tear your eyes away, opting to look at your lap instead, feeling the rush of heat flood your cheeks. wonwoo smirks to himself when he catches you checking him out and stealing glances at him, a little boost to his ego.

he takes off the gloves, placing them on the counter and finally, his attention is back on you. he looks at you, stepping forward so that he was closer, standing between your legs as he lifts your chin up so that you can meet his gaze.

"what's going on?", he asks softly, his hand caressing your cheek as he looks at you sweetly. your eyes dart to the side before returning to his unwavering gaze.

"i-i don't know", you confess as you look at him. "i just needed some space i guess, everything got too much", you tell and his gaze softens as he looks at you.

"next time you want to escape, at least call me, i can take you", he murmurs, his words carrying a sense of reassurance and comfort. you gulp at the closeness and his words as he stares into your soul.

"yeah-okay", you mumbled softly, blinking at him, getting nervous again. the way wonwoo could render you a shy nervous mess in mere seconds was something that needed to be studied.

before you can dwell on your response more , wonwoo closes the gap between you, his lips meeting yours in a tender and gentle kiss. a rush of warmth floods your body and in that moment, everything seems to stop. he pulls away and you hope he can't hear how loud and fast your heart is beating.

you wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him forward as you bury your face in his chest, engulfing him in a hug. wonwoo's arms instantly wrap around your waist, pulling you a little closer to him, letting you bask in his embrace, the comforting weight of his presence grounding you as he hugs you back, burying his face in the crook of your neck. at that moment, amidst the warmth of his embrace, the world seemed to fade away, leaving only the two of you suspended in a moment of quiet intimacy.

bonus: the intrusive thoughts really won here

you riding the bike with wonwoo again, the wind is refreshing as he glides on the roads. after that day, you'd gotten a little more confident and okay with riding on wonwoo's bike. but now, it was like second nature to you. your hands are around wonwoo's waist before you have a little mischievous thought and you smile to yourself. your hands slowly creep up to his chest, your fingers finding the buttons of his shirt as you slowly undo them. wonwoo has no idea what's happening until he glances dow n at the feeling of your hands on his chest, seeing what you are doing.

"what are you doing?", he asks, his voice filling your helmet and you suppress the urge to laugh.

"i'm showing the world how sexy my boyfriend is, though i should be gatekeeping you actually", you tease, undoing another button as wonwoo's shirt now hangs on for dear life. your hands creep up under his shirt and you hear the soft groan he lets out as your hands caress his abs and you grin, satisfied knowing the effect you were having on him.

"oh love, you are so in for it when we get home", he says making you chuckle as you hug him tighter.

taglist: @biboramp3 @naaaaafla @weird-bookworm @icyminghao @kyeomyun @lvlystars @blue-jisungs @wootify @ihrtboo @idubiluv @n4mj00nvq

@joshuaahong @fallingforshua29 @itsveronicaxxx @frankenstein852 @mirxzii @wheeboo @writingmeraki @wqnwoos

#K-Fic Collection Review #wonwoo #jeon wonwoo #wonwoo fluff #seventeen imagines #seventeen fluff #seventeen x reader #wonwoo x reader

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twenty-qs · 2 days ago

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Thinking some more about the lighting in the scene where Viktor wakes up and then leaves. And I don’t think it’s so simple as “Viktor is numb inside” or “Viktor no longer has affection for Jayce.”

Arcane is VERY purposeful about lighting. The angle and color and intensity—they all tell a story. And in this scene, Jayce always has his back against the window, awash in bright white light, while Viktor is either framed against the creepy platform thing where he had his chrysalis stage, or the darkness. It’s also notable that this scene is primarily from Viktor’s POV—it’s him piecing together what’s happened to him, why he’s alive, what he needs to do next. So this is Jayce the way Viktor sees him.

I think Viktor sees Jayce as a source of light in his life. This was always thematically true—Jayce getting the limelight while Viktor was in the shadows—but it had kind of a negative connotation before, where Jayce seemed to be growing in strength and vibrancy while Viktor withered, weakened, was shunted aside. But here, there’s nothing overpowering about the light. It has this soft, gentle glow over everything, including Viktor. The very first thing Viktor did when he woke up was go toward the light.

Then Viktor turns away and heads toward the darkness. He continues descending, all the way until he reaches the very darkest depths of the Undercity. There, he sees the people who are the lowest of lows, and performs a miracle for the selfless purpose of easing their suffering.

What Viktor reminds me of is an ascetic monk. (I know there’s a lot of Christian imagery, but I think this is also true for other belief systems like Buddhism.) Someone who has let go of worldly desires in pursuit of a holy mission to reduce human suffering. This is represented by Sky, who is the one who had the purest desire to help the Undercity (Viktor’s goals were corrupted by personal ambition and his desire to live). Whether this is literally Sky after merging with the Hexcore, or just some hallucination, it’s clear she acts as a “higher calling” who leads Viktor to his new mission. One thing that ascetic monks have in common is a purposeful self-denial of the things they personally covet. It’s a sort of death of the ego. Viktor goes with nothing but a blanket and his cane/staff. He doesn’t even give his name to anyone. He’s let go of the self so he can finally dedicate himself to the people.

So I think when Viktor turned away from Jayce, from the light, it wasn’t that he didn’t care about Jayce anymore. It’s just that he had kind of a divine revelation, and knew that he had to let go of everything that he once identified with in order to serve his new purpose. His care for Jayce was a selfish, personal kind of care. And that’s exactly why he had to leave. He wouldn’t be able to go all the way to those depths and bring salvation to people if he was still tied to his worldly connections. You can’t see in the dark until you shut off the flashlight.

Anyways. That’s my current theory about Viktor. Idk what the fuck is happening with Jayce though. There’s definitely something else going on about Jayce and light (the opening shows him blinded by light and the hexgates turned into pure white light) but I have no idea what that’s all about.

#arcane #arcane spoilers #jayce talis #viktor arcane #arcane season 2 #jayvik #arcane meta

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ppssession · 2 days ago

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ของฝากจากการเดินทาง

Lathan just checked in to a hotel. This is a long holiday trip.

He chose to travel to the countryside of an Asian country. Luckily, there was a hotel nearby and it was close to the places he was going to visit. After checking in, Lathan set off.

He walked around the countryside to explore the beautiful nature. As time passed, he started to feel hungry. He looked for a restaurant and found an old shop.

When he entered the shop, he met an old man who looked harmless. The old man asked in a husky voice, “What would you like to eat, customer?”

Lathan was slightly startled, he politely replied, “Any local food.” After receiving the answer, the old man disappeared into the back of the shop. Lathan sat at the table for a while, the old man came out from the back of the shop with soup in his hand.

When the soup plate was in front of him, Athan took the first bite and put it in his mouth. He found the delicious taste and started to eat the soup with great relish. The whole scene was in the old man's sight, and the old man didn't blink even once.

เมื่ออาธานกินซุปเสร็จ เขากำลังจะจ่ายเงินค่าอาหาร แต่ชายชราเจ้าของร้านก็หยุดเขา

Old Man: No need to pay, I'll pay for you. Lathan thanked him for his kindness and walked away, with the old man smiling at him from behind.

When Lathan returned to the hotel, he immediately fell asleep on the soft bed.

In the middle of the night, Lathan felt a heat all over his body, as if something was burning him.

Lathan's body twitched and his eyes rolled back and forth, but everything slowly calmed down and Lathan fell asleep again.

In the morning, Lethan woke up and picked up his phone to check his face. Oh, it was better than I thought.

This body is mine now. I'm tired of being a boring old man in the countryside. Now the old man has possessed Lathan's body.

With a magical herb that has the power to make those who eat the first tree become possessed by those who eat the second tree.

Ahh, this young man's body is so good. I feel more life energy than an old person.

The old man wanted to leave this crazy place. The old man in Lathan's body packed his things and headed back to Australia. He looked at Lathan's ID card. Mr. Lathan's name is not bad. Here's my name.

Months later, the new Lathan is enjoying life.

“Who should I have fun with today? Thank you for coming to me to give me your body, Lathan,” he said, running his hand over his erect penis in his pants.

Okay, this is the first non-Asian guy I've written lol. Hope you like it. This was a small request from my followers and friends, but I'm sorry, this was supposed to be posted an hour ago but I got caught up in other things. Hope you like it.

#body possession #male body possession #body theft #male transformation #gay possession

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damneddamsy · 1 day ago

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second sight | cregan stark x oc (part x)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’ll scar,” she said softly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You're the first.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Have you heard of her, Lord Tyrion?”

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

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

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

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

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

His fangs to guard the keep!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My dearest Claere,

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

All my love, Mummy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Dreamy girl,” he muttered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Forgive me,” she wept softly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Have mercy, my love.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Bran calls them that,” she opposed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Come," she whispered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Claere hummed, giving him her full attention.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“There it goes again!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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alsofoundinpeas · 1 day ago

Text

I Don't Need To Know

Summary: Spencer Reid has no choice but to watch the love of his life fall in love with another man.

CONTENT WARNINGS: 18+ MDNI!! This fic is intended for adult audiences. Major character death. HEAVY angst. Bittersweet ending? Graphic depictions of violence (for maybe two lines). Fingering (f receiving). P in v sex/unprotected sex (in terms of a condom, birth control is mentioned). Loss of virginity (both m and f). Creampie (god I hate that word ugh!!). Slight age gap (roughly five years). Argument scene that may be triggering for readers that have experienced SA or manipulation from a partner (nothing of that nature actually happens, but just in case).

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader

A/N: This is inspired by Will He by Joji, so I highly recommend listening to it while reading. I cried several times while writing this, but I felt it needed to be done so here it is. :’) Please tell me what you think! If you enjoy it, please like, reblog, and share it with your friends! <3 Thank you and I love you all :)

I got knots all up in my chest… Just know, I’m trying my best…

Spencer had always found the saying “If you love something, set it free. If it comes back, it’s yours. If not, it was never meant to be” absurd. He couldn’t fathom willingly letting go of something he loved on the off chance that it would come back to him. Not after having everything he’d ever loved ripped from his clutches throughout his lifetime. To him, love wasn’t about releasing someone to see if they’d return. It was about holding on as though his very survival depended on it—like a feral cat finally finding food after days of hunger, sinking its teeth in and never letting go, no matter the cost.

It wasn’t until today that Spencer finally understood the meaning of that stupid phrase. And he wished with every intricate thread of his being that he didn’t.

Five years. Five long, agonizing years had passed. So why was he here now? Why, after what felt like an eternity of pleading for just one more moment with her, did the universe decide now was the time to give him what he wanted?

Ironically, the timing only drove home another phrase he’d always hated: “Be careful what you wish for.”

There she was, as beautiful as the day he’d met her, sitting in the corner of what had once been their favorite café. The sunlight streaming through the windows catches on her ring, the enticing glinting of the jewelry drawing his eyes away from her face momentarily. His heart is in his throat. She’s still wearing the wedding ring he’d given her, twisting it in the same nervous fashion she always used to.

And there across from her is a man that isn’t him making her smile.

‘Cause when you look… When you laugh… When you smile… I’ll bring you back…

Spencer Reid had never been a particularly angry man. He had his moments—who didn’t?—but he usually considered himself level-headed, patient. But now, watching Y/N hide a bashful smile behind the rim of her mug as she gazed at the man across from her, all Spencer could feel was rage. Raw, unbridled rage. It flared up inside him as her head tipped back, the sound of her laughter crashing over him like a tidal wave, stirring his veins with a violent rush. The same sound he’d yearned to hear again for five fucking years. And it was all because of him—Ben.

That was his girl. His perfect, beautiful girl. The love of his life. His angel.

All Spencer could do was stand there, feeling every broken shard of his non-existent heart pierce his chest.

And now I’m sad… And I’m a mess… And now we high… That’s why I left… That’s why I left…

It wasn’t meant to be like this. Spencer had never wanted to leave her. But that choice wasn’t his to make.

That cold, cruel September night six years ago had robbed Spencer of his very existence.

Everything that could have gone wrong during that case did. The bullet wasn’t meant for him, but he took it anyway. He had traded his life in exchange for JJ’s. It wasn’t even meant to be heroic. It wasn’t done out of love. It was just instinct. It’s who he was as a person.

Was.

The word leaves a bitter taste in the back of his throat. Because that’s his reality now. He was a person; an agent, a professor, a son, a husband…

Now he’s… well, that he didn’t quite understand. As a man of science, Spencer was stumped by what he could even call his existence now. Calling himself a ghost felt silly—he felt as alive as the day he’d died. And yet, that was essentially what he was. A whisper of the person he’d once been. A soul caught between worlds.

Spencer could still feel the exact moment his soul wrenched free from its physical tether to the world. Even recalling it sent a shiver down his spine. It hadn’t been peaceful, as so many people claimed in interviews. No… it had been agony in its purest form; white hot and searing as his very essence clawed its way out from his ribs. There was no light waiting for him to step into it and find peace.

Instead, he had watched helplessly as the team he called his family swarmed his dead body, uselessly screaming for a medic as the crimson puddle underneath him grew and smeared beneath their hands as they knelt beside him. He had watched Y/N swing open their door that fateful night, the excited grin on her face vanishing as she came face to face with a tearful Emily instead of the husband she’d been eagerly waiting for. And he had watched the guilt eat away at JJ as their eyes met at his funeral, the hatred on Y/N’s face so raw it made Spencer’s own stomach twist.

Despite the Bureau's insistence, she took charge of every detail—planning his funeral in a way that honored everything Spencer would have wanted. Y/N held Diana as she wept over her baby boy's body. She delivered a eulogy that left even Spencer in shambles. She was the first person to arrive and the last to leave, waiting until everyone had left to sink to her knees beside his casket and howl her grievances.

For that first year, Y/N was as strong as she could be during the day. She handled everything that needed to be done, as long as the sun was still up. But when night fell, and the suffocating silence of their empty home settled in… that’s when she’d finally let herself break.

Spencer had never been a religious man, but the year after his death felt like an endless descent into his own personal hell. He would never escape the sound of those gut-wrenching screams. He cursed whatever force had condemned him to an eternity where he could do nothing but watch, powerless as Y/N crumpled to the floor night after night, her wails so desperate it seemed as though she thought breaking the sound barrier might somehow bring him back to life.

All he could do was stay beside her, silently pleading for his touch to somehow reach her, his hands brushing over her again and again, unnoticed and unfelt.

Time was no longer a concept to Spencer.

The limits of his existence perplexed him. He couldn’t roam freely, couldn’t go where he pleased—he could only follow where Y/N went. It was as if his very soul was bound to hers, linked by some invisible string that kept him tied to her even in death. It brought him both joy and sorrow: joy in the fact that he could still watch her, still admire the way she carried on, and sorrow because she would never know he was there, silently urging her forward, so incredibly proud of her strength.

The longer he lingered, the more control he gained over his abilities. It started with the smallest things—a strand of hair lifting with the brush of his fingers, a faint chill against her skin as he cradled her face while she slept. But soon, it became more. Doors creaked open as he stepped into rooms behind her, and objects shifted ever so slightly from their places when he pushed with just enough force.

There were times when she seemed to sense him—moments Spencer cherished more than anything. In those fleeting instances, it felt as though she could see him, even though he knew she couldn’t. Every day, rain or shine, she visited his grave, and when she spoke to him, her gaze would drift forward, as if she were looking into the honey-colored eyes she once loved. Her hands would rest open in her lap, as though she knew he was holding them. When she was home, she’d speak aloud every thought that came to mind, as though she knew he could hear every word that fell from her perfect lips. And he always responded as if she could hear him in return. That was their new life for the first year after his death.

After a year and one day, he was gone.

That’s where his understanding of the phrase “If you love something, set it free. If it comes back, it’s yours. If not, it was never meant to be” came from. It was because she had set him free.

One whole year had passed. The hardest year of Y/N’s life. She had knelt by his grave, laying fresh flowers with trembling hands, her tears falling freely for hours. When she finally stood to leave, her legs unsteady beneath her, she pressed a soft kiss to his headstone. Through her tears, she whispered how much she missed him, how he never left her thoughts, and how she’d never stop loving him—but above all, she wished he could be at peace. And on the night following the anniversary of his passing, her wish was granted. He had faded into nothingness, existing only in her dreams and memories for five long years.

But now, he was back. Because he had always been hers.

Will your tongue still remember the taste of my lips? Will your shadow remember the swing of my hips?

Spencer remembered their first time like it was yesterday, though he wasn’t sure if he could thank his eidetic memory or the fact that it was because of how remarkable it had been for the memory lingering so vividly...

“You’re lying! You’ve really never had sex before?”

Y/N squawked the words incredulously as she sat atop Spencer’s lap, grinning down at the stammering mess of a man beneath her. Spencer’s hands flexed against her hips, unintentionally squeezing as he took a deep breath to calm himself.

They were inside Spencer’s apartment, having enjoyed the museum and dinner but still craving each other’s company too badly to end the night there. What started as sweet, innocent pecks pressed up against the kitchen counter had quickly devolved into ravenous, passionate kisses that had them stumbling towards the couch. It was going so well… until Spencer panicked after Y/N had whispered into his ear asking how far he wanted things to go.

That resulted in him spewing out the fact that he, at twenty-six years old, was a virgin.

“No, I haven’t! Why is that so hard to believe?” Spencer huffs, his small smile belying his annoyed tone.

It was their sixth date total in a span of four months, but it was their first date as an actual couple. Spencer had reluctantly agreed to let Penelope set him up on a blind date after his failed attempt at taking JJ out had shattered any of the confidence he’d built up, leaving the man petrified of taking his chances romantically again. He suspected Penelope’s pity for him was why she was setting up said date to begin with, but he quickly found himself grateful that he went.

Y/N had been friends with Penelope for years, having bonded online over some indie punk rock band that was no longer around and developing a close friendship from there despite their age difference. When Penelope found out Y/N had moved to Virginia and was single, she couldn’t resist setting the two up.

It’s Y/N’s turn to stammer as she quickly thinks of a response. “I, uh… you’re just so handsome that I naturally assumed you’d had sex before.”

Spencer blinks up at her skeptically, trying to detect even the faintest clue that the otherworldly woman in his lap was lying to him. All he found was nervous adoration as she stared back down at him, her cheeks flushed a beautiful shade of pink. It suited her. He wanted to cause it more often.

“I had, um… I graduated super early from both high school and college, so I didn’t do much dating.”

Instead of the judgment Spencer expected to see spread across her face, Y/N simply just hummed in understanding, her eyes curious as they watched him. He’d elaborate more on his unfortunate (for lack of a better term) adolescence later. For now, he just wanted to keep from scaring the poor girl off of his lap so he could taste her sweet chapstick again.

“I see…” Y/N murmurs before continuing, shifting forward slightly with a smirk. “I’ll let you in on a little secret. I’m also a virgin.”

Spencer’s eyes widened almost comically as he gawked up at her. His heart stutters in his chest, his mouth going dry. His tongue pokes out in a meek attempt at wetting his lips, his voice cracking as he responds.

“Et tu, Y/N?”

Oh fuck. Spencer hadn’t meant to let the lame reference slip from his mouth. She just made him so nervous that he couldn’t think straight, and Rome had been heavily on his mind since she had perched herself in his lap. Specifically Roman goddesses, because she looked like she should be amongst them on their thrones. Surely she was going to leave now—-

Loud, genuine laughter bubbles from Y/N’s lips, the noise startling Spencer as she tips her head back and her hands grip his shoulders to stabilize herself. She thought it was funny. She thought he was funny.

“That’s, like, the last thing I expected you to say,” Y/N managed once her laughter had simmered down into giggles. “But, to answer your question… I too have really never had sex before.”

Spencer knew that it wasn’t due to a lack of suitors. The woman was sex personified; the archetype of beauty and seduction wrapped into one perfect being. The twitching in his pants brought his attention back to the situation at hand. He could ask her later why that was. For now, he brought his focus back to her.

In an uncharacteristically bold move, Spencer tilted his head up to brush their noses together. “Would you… would you want to?”

It didn’t take a profiler to notice the hitch in her breath or the almost imperceptible squeezing of her thighs around his hips. Her pupils were already blown, her lower lip trembling from what Spencer prayed was anticipation and not regret as his question settled over her. The silence stretched between them, the seconds feeling like hours in Spencer’s overly anxious mind.

He’d done it now. He’d gone off and opened his stupid mouth and frightened the one woman he could actually see himself having a future with because the head straining against his zipper overruled the head housing his supposed genius level IQ. The apologies were already forming in the back of his throat, but they weren’t needed because she— she was kissing him?

“God, yes. Please,” Y/N murmured eagerly against his lips, effectively clearing every cohesive thought from his brain.

If Spencer thought her words were enough to bring upon his undoing, he was sorely mistaken. The grinding of her hips against his erection ignited something inside of him that he had no idea existed. It was feral, drowning out all of his other emotions and replacing them with one thing: primal, unfiltered desire.

Spencer understood now why men used to start wars over women.

With each gasp that fell upon his ears, Spencer pledged his allegiance to her. Every stuttered moan that came into existence from his hips rutting up into her clothed core fueled his devotion to her. It was animalistic, the way his hands gripped her ass and pulled her tighter against his body as his mouth devoured her now, every cell swimming through his veins screaming for more. More of her touch, more of her taste, more of her sounds... God, those heavenly sounds that had Spencer finally believing in salvation, if only in the form of her skin against his.

Tongues danced together as layers were hastily stripped away. Layers of insecurity. Layers of self-doubt. Layers of uncertainty. Their clothes fell to the ground as though the fabric burned them, clumsy hands fidgeting with buttons and tugging at zippers with a vendetta.

Those layers that had crumbled so easily were replaced instead with the firm knowledge that this was exactly where they were meant to be: in each other’s arms, trembling and panting as their world’s trajectory tilted so violently it uprooted them from their upright position, knocking them down against the leather cushions as their bodies attempted to mend their separated souls back into one.

Spencer choked on the words he wanted to worship her with, so instead he used the most primitive sense he could to get his message across: touch. His lips sucked purpling reminders into the crook of her neck of what they both knew to be true now: He is hers just as much as she is his. Lithe fingers tugged the soaked fabric of her lace panties down until they landed in a heap with their other clothes. Those same fingers pause at the crest of her most intimate spot, his eyes meeting hers with a silent plea.

Y/N found herself in the same position, her words failing her as they were strangled in her throat by the overwhelming adoration she felt for the man hovering above her. Instead of chanting her desire for Spencer to please touch her, she canted her hips up in approval.

Her moans were swallowed by swollen lips that claimed the sound straight from her body as nimble fingers dug themselves into the deepest parts of her. Their rhythm was clumsy but steadfast, her hips bucking against his hand in jerky movements as the palm of his hand pressed against her clit. Spencer’s own hips ground against the bare skin of her thigh, shielded only by the immature fabric of his equation-covered boxers.

Spencer hadn’t for a second thought the night was going to go like this. If he had known he’d have the definition of art itself clawing at his shoulders and panting into his mouth while he made her legs tremble beneath him, he wouldn’t have worn what he deemed his lucky boxers. At least they had done their job, he supposed.

Their lips separated completely as a guttural moan wrenched its way from Y/N’s throat, her body beginning to thrash wildly underneath him as the tension in her lower belly coiled tighter. Spencer wouldn’t allow her first time to happen on his couch. She was much too precious for that. But he’d already made the decision to unravel her at least once while they were there, to bring her over the edge before taking her into his bedroom so that he could experience the glorious sight of her falling apart more than once tonight.

Spencer was a virgin, not a prude. He’d seen porn before. He’d read erotic novels. Anything he could use to try to prepare himself for the real experience, he did. But nothing could have prepared him for the downright visceral reaction Y/N had as his fingers curled and brushed against the rough patch of skin inside of her that caused the tension building in her body to snap. Her cries of pleasure tore through him as her pussy clenched around his fingers, his free hand leaving its place beside her head to keep her thighs pried open. He quickly shifted up onto his knees to watch her taking his fingers as she came, taking the pleasure he inflicted upon her.

He sang her praises while slowing his pace, cooing softly at her as he stroked her hair and worked her through the aftershocks of her orgasm. Only when she was squirming and whining beneath him did he finally remove his fingers, sucking them into his mouth greedily. Y/N’s mouth gaped open as her chest heaved, her eyes locked on Spencer as his tongue lapped over his fingers, enjoying her essence with a groan. Her body sagged into the couch, a delighted laugh spilling from her exhausted frame as she smiled up at him, her eyes twinkling in the dim light of his living room.

“Do you still want to keep going?” Spencer breathed as he gazed down at her, his cheeks flushed and eyes full of something that made Y/N's heart flutter. “B-because we can stop there if you want. I just… I want to do what makes you happy.”

Above her was the man she’d recognized, soft and timid, but now with a newfound air of confidence in his eyes that hadn’t been there before. Above her was the man that she wanted more than anything. Above her was the man that she knew, without a shadow of doubt, would be her husband.

“Spencer… if you don’t fuck me right now, then I’ll die a virgin, right here on your couch... and it will be all your fault.”

Spencer’s hearty chuckles filled the room, his nose twitching as he grinned down at the dramatic woman. He simply couldn’t let that be her fate, could he?

Shaking his head, he stooped down to press a gentle kiss to her nose before standing from the couch, offering her his (clean) hand. Y/N’s face twisted in confusion as she stared up at him, still reeling from the earth-shattering orgasm surprisingly given to her by the same man who’d eagerly rambled about the lore behind Doctor Who on their first date when she’d mentioned she hadn’t seen it.

“Not here, silly girl. The bedroom,” He whispered.

He guided her down the dark hallway as though he were escorting the most priceless treasure known to man to his bed, and in his eyes, he was. His hand stayed steady on her hip as she swayed lightly, her body pressed into his side as he opened the door with shaky hands. Any confidence Spencer had managed to muster throughout the night vanished as they crossed the threshold into his bedroom, his teeth gnawing at his lower lip gently as his courage began to crack.

In an almost startling display of being seen, something Spencer had never experienced before, Y/N looped her arms around his neck and tugged him into a kiss that simultaneously stole the breath from his lungs and filled him with the air he needed to breathe again, effectively calming his nerves.

“It’s okay,” She reassured him against his lips. “It’s just me.”

She walked them backward until the backs of her knees pressed into his cool comforter, taking over where Spencer so willingly handed her the reigns while he regained his momentum. She sat on the edge of his bed, her hands pressed into his hips to keep him from following after her. Her eyes met his, the moonlight streaming through his bedroom window illuminating her as though she were a vision, a figment of his imagination that he’d conjured up in the dead of night, ready to haunt his every waking moment once he inevitably woke up to an empty bed. She was too good to be true.

Spencer’s hands fell to rest on her shoulders, just to give himself proof that Y/N was real and that he hadn’t dreamed her up or somehow followed in his mother’s footsteps and succumbed to early onset schizophrenia.

She was real and she was here, eye level with the tent in his boxers and naked as the day she was born, her warm breath fanning across the smattering of hair trailing down from his belly button to below his underwear. His muscles tensed and twitched as she smirked up at him, pressing a tender kiss to the head of his cock through the thin fabric. His entire body flinched from that one touch, his brows furrowing together as he hissed quietly.

“N-not that I wouldn’t love to feel your mouth on me—“ Spencer’s pitch raised as her hands found the elastic of his waistband, pulling his boxers down his legs. “But I… I won’t last if you do.”

The fondness in her eyes quelled any humiliation he felt from having uttered those words.

Placing a kiss to his hip, she nodded in understanding before shuffling backwards to lay in the middle of his bed, with him kneeling onto the mattress after her. The sight of her— stretched out and languid and looking at him as if she wanted to ravage him— had him sending up a silent ‘thank you’ to whatever in the universe had deemed him worthy enough of having this divine of a woman in his life.

As Spencer reaches for his nightstand to grab a condom, Y/N stammers, grabbing his attention. He watches for a moment as she flounders over her words, his brow furrowing in concern at her sudden diffidence.

“Are you sure you still want to do this?”

“I’m on birth control if you want to skip the condom!”

Spencer inhales sharply at the same time she smiles sheepishly up at him, her blurted words almost making him finish before they’d even started. He holds her gaze, tracing her irises for any hint of hesitancy. When he finds none, he nods once, swallowing hard.

“I— uh. Um...”

It was rare that Spencer Reid was rendered speechless, but Y/N had managed to do it with just eleven words. He clears his throat, trying again.

“Yes. Yes, I would like to skip the condom. Only if you’re absolutely sure that’s what you want.”

“Yes. It is. I pinky promise.”

Y/N holds up her pinky for him, the sight so endearing he can practically feel his heart melt away, dripping in a sticky mess inside him. He just grins, linking his pinky with hers before he moves to settle over her once more.

Her fingers tangle themselves in his hair as his elbows dig into the mattress beside her ribs. The flushed head of his cock bumps against her clit as he reaches down to line himself up at her entrance, a small whine leaving her lips at the sensation. He repeats the action, dizzy from the sound of her soft noises. She was still soaked from their time on the couch, a small feeling of pride welling in Spencer’s chest at the knowledge that not only did he make her cum, but he’d kept her wet while they made it here.

His lips meet hers in a searing kiss, the both of them quivering with anticipation at giving themselves so intimately to someone for the first time. He was happy it was her. And she was happy it was him.

Spencer couldn’t remember a time where his mind had ever been quiet. All he knew was incessant thoughts and worries, unable to put a halt to the chaos jumbling around his brain. But as he pressed forward and sunk into Y/N for the first time, his entire mind went blank. White static crowded the spaces where various facts and tidbits of information had been stored, the only thing he was able to focus on now being the sheer ecstasy coursing through his body from being inside of her.

His mouth hung open as his eyes rolled back into his head, his hips stilling as they pressed flush against hers. She mirrored his response, squeaking out an “oh!” as her walls fluttered around the intrusion instinctively. He throbbed in response, his head dropping to rest in the crook of her neck, unable to stop the pitiful whimper that escaped from behind clenched teeth.

She was so tight. So wet. So warm.

Sparks of pleasure zinged up and down his spine as he remained still, waiting patiently for Y/N to adjust to both his size and to the feeling of being filled for the first time in general. He’d wait as long as she needed him to. All he wanted was for her to feel good. To enjoy this as much as he was.

He was a humble man, truly. But even he wasn’t too shy to admit he’d been gifted with a size that was bigger than average. Not necessarily just in length, falling just shy of seven inches, but in girth as well.

Spencer peppered soft kisses up and down her flushed skin, feeling her rapid pulse beneath his lips. He was sure she could feel his own heartbeat pounding against his ribs from where their bare chests were pressed together. Her nipples were taut, pressing into his skin enticingly. He wanted to touch them. Taste them. But he’d wait until she was ready. He didn’t want to overwhelm her.

At her gentle nod, Spencer lifted his head to press his forehead against hers, their lips brushing together as he pulls his hips back. The sensation of her grip tightening in his hair as he pushed forward does more to him than he’d care to admit, but he still lets her hear just how affected he is by her. With a shaky moan, Spencer repeats the motion, easing out of her before gently rocking back into her. He keeps this up for a few minutes, her sharp breaths dissolving into muted moans of her own.

“You can— you can move faster if y-you want.”

Spencer’s eyes flutter shut at her words, and he’s pressing a fervent kiss to her lips before he begins to really move. The sound of skin smacking together begins to fill the air as he ruts his hips into hers, his walls bearing witness to every pleasured noise that spills between them. His pace is frenzied, his rhythm stuttered, but it feels so good that neither of them really care.

Y/N’s nails roamed his body now, alternating between dragging harsh lines into the planes of his back and burying into his shoulders to leave little tender half moons in their wake. Spencer yearned to pull every single noise that he could from her throat, planting his hands beside her head and hefting himself up for better leverage before his lips wrapped around her right nipple. He sucks harshly at the pert bud, reveling in the desperate whimper it causes.

Spencer grunts when she clenches around him, letting his mouth glide over to her neglected breast, his hips hammering into hers now as she cries out his name over and over. He was close… so, so close. But he needed to make her cum one more time before he’d allow himself to. He needed to know what it felt like for her to fall apart around his cock. With every ounce of willpower he had, Spencer slows his hips to a stop inside of her.

Y/N whined her discontent at his sudden pause, her eyes opening to blink hazily up at him. “Why’d you… why’d you stop?” She panted, her fingers finding and twisting her own nipples as if she couldn’t help but to touch herself.

Spencer muffled a curse at the sight, sitting back on his haunches as he stared down at the woman beneath him with reverence.

“Flip onto your stomach for me, angel.”

She does as instructed, wiggling her hips coyly as Spencer grabs a pillow from the head of the bed and stuffs it underneath her hips to prop her up better, ensuring she’d be comfortable. Once she’s settled on her front, Spencer wasted no time in pressing himself back into her, both of them releasing a moan so loud he’s surprised the walls don’t shake. Thank God he didn’t have neighbors right now.

He eased himself down so his chest is pressed to her back, lavishing her neck and shoulder in open mouthed kisses while his hips drilled into her. This angle was deeper, allowing him to plow directly into her g-spot as she writhed and begged incoherently beneath him. He laced his left hand with hers, shoving them into his mattress. His other hand stuffed itself between the pillow and her wriggling body until the pads of his fingers found her clit, his breath coming out in sharp pants into her ear.

Y/N felt delirious with pleasure, bucking her hips back in a feeble attempt to meet his. He began whispering into her ear about how good she felt around him, thanking her for allowing him to fuck her, praising her for taking him so well…

His words paired with his fingers circling her clit have her second orgasm ripping through her body with so much ferocity that tears begin to fall down her cheeks, her eyes squeezing shut and her hand clutching his so tightly her knuckles whitened as she wailed into a pillow, gushing around him.

Spencer let out his own guttural moan at the feeling, spilling into her with a shout as he planted his head between her shoulder blades, his hips weakly thrusting into her as they rode out their climaxes.

He held her until her tremors stopped. He kissed her forehead before he darted off to the bathroom to get a warm rag to clean her with. He thanked her in soft whispers as her eyes began to drift shut before he’d even finished cleaning his mess between her thighs.

And he knew, watching the gorgeous woman before him sleep so soundly in his bed after they’d just defiled each other’s innocence, that he was looking at his future wife.

Will your lover caress you the way that I did? Will you notice my charm if he slips up one bit?

The air was thick with tension as Y/N stared at Ben, her chest heaving and eyes watering at the hurt look on his face. Spencer watched from the corner, his concern for his wife outweighing the jealousy he had previously felt when he watched the couple slip into her— though he still selfishly thought of it as their— bed. Y/N had been dating Ben for three months now. That made for three months that Spencer ached so heavily he’d sometimes wish he could fade back into nothingness if it meant he didn’t have to watch the love of his life with another man.

The furthest Ben and Y/N had gone physically was a few pecks here and there, with Y/N always being the one to draw away and cut the kisses short. Ben had played the nice guy act, reassuring her that he understood her hesitance and that he’d be okay doing whatever she was comfortable with. Spencer despised him. He could see right through Ben’s facade, and if he could do more than nudge a door open, he’d make that hatred known. But he couldn’t.

Spencer watched on with furrowed brows as Y/N reached a shaky hand over and turned the lamp on her nightstand on, illuminating the dark room in a soft glow that contrasted with the dark energy that began to cloud the small space. Spencer could see it all on Ben’s face: hurt, betrayal, anger. He could see the fear, guilt, and shame on Y/N’s.

This was the first night Y/N had tried to push past her discomfort so that she could offer Ben more than just false promises of physical intimacy. It started slow, with soft kisses that dissolved into hungrier ones as they laid together in the dark. But the second Ben went to roll on top of her, sliding a hand down her body to pull her hips against his, she panicked. Her body jolted, and her hands had shot out instinctively to shove him off of her, leaving them where they were now in some sort of silent standoff.

Spencer knew as soon as it had happened just why it did. She had thought of him. His guilt overruled the smug pleasure he’d felt as he watched it unfold. As painful as it had been watching Y/N move on with her life, all he ultimately wanted was for her to be happy. Spencer had been barely thirty-five when he passed, and she had only been thirty. That left almost an entire lifetime ahead for her, and even though he so desperately wanted to have lived that lifetime with her, he had to accept that that wasn’t what fate had in store for them.

“I-I’m sorry-”

“What the fuck is your problem?”

Spencer’s jaw tightened at the same time Y/N’s dropped.

“Excuse me?” Y/N leveled Ben with a narrowed glare, rage flashing in her eyes in place of the shame that had just been there.

“I get that you have a dead husband. I’ve tried to be patient with you. But fuck! It's been six years, Y/N. It’s time for you to move on,” Ben seethes, his face reddening with a mixture of embarrassment and anger. “I can’t even touch you without you flinging me off of you!”

It’s as though Y/N is the exact physical embodiment of Spencer’s own emotions, physically reacting in the way that he can’t. She was out of the bed before Spencer could even blink, marching over to the bedroom door and yanking it open. Ben watches in bewilderment, his mind clearly not catching up with what was happening.

“Get out of my fucking house.”

Y/N’s voice is cold as she stares menacingly at Ben. When he doesn’t move, she speaks again, her voice louder. “Get out of my fucking house, Ben!”

Ben stammers, standing from the bed and attempting to plead his case. “Babe, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that, I just-”

“I don’t care. Get out of my house,” Y/N repeats herself, cutting off his pathetic excuses.

Spencer smirks proudly from beside her.

That’s his girl.

Ben sighs, hanging his head and scrubbing his hands frustratedly across his face.

“If you kick me out over some guy that’s been dead for six years, then we’re over. For good.”

Spencer cackles at Ben’s proposition, though it can’t be heard by either party in the room. That was his attempt at fixing things? Seriously? Good riddance. He’d drag the guy out of there himself if he could.

“If I haven’t made myself clear, we’re already over. No one talks about my husband like that. Now get out before I call the police and have you escorted off of my property.”

It doesn’t take long after that for Ben to tuck his tail and leave, slamming the front door on his way out. Y/N’s steam runs out the second his car pulls out of her driveway, tears streaming down her face as she curls up on her couch.

Spencer’s own chest twinges uncomfortably as he sits beside her, stroking her hair despite her inability to actually receive the comfort. He didn’t know what hurt more; watching his beautiful, broken girl sob and not being able to stop her tears, or being the cause of the tears himself. He had to do something, anything to let her know he was still there and that he still loved her beyond death.

The same time Spencer stands is the same time Y/N’s tears pause, a hiccup rocking her frame before she glances up.

“Spence?” Y/N calls softly. Spencer’s heart would have stopped right there had he not already been dead.

Spencer turns slowly from his place at the end of the couch, his eyes wide and hopeful as he responds. “Yes, angel?”

His hope fades as he realizes she isn’t looking at him, rather her eyes are just darting around the room.

“Spencer I… I know it’s been awhile since I’ve talked to you. And for that, I’m so sorry,” Y/N starts, her voice cracking. “I don’t know if you can even hear me. Or if you ever could. But I miss you. I miss you in my bones. I just… you were— are my everything.”

The lump in her throat grows as the tears begin to stream down her face again. Spencer’s own eyes sting with tears that she’ll never see drip down his face. He swallows hard, making his way over to their— yes, their— bookshelf.

“I’d give anything to have you back in my arms… I should have begged you to leave the BAU and just teach full-time if it meant I could still have you here, safe and at home. It’s not even a home without you.”

Y/N sobs freely now, tucking her knees to her chest and wrapping her arms around them before she buries her head into them.

Every ounce of grief, guilt, sadness, and anger from what his death has done to his precious girl fuels Spencer to do something he deemed impossible: he yanks the leatherbound notebook holding their vows inside of it off of the bookshelf, sending it tumbling to the ground in a desperate attempt to show her that he’s still there and that he still loves her.

The noise causes a yelp to slip from Y/N’s lips, her head jerking up as the book hits the hardwood floor with a loud thump. It had fallen open exactly to where Spencer wanted it to: the page starting his vows to her. Y/N crawls from the couch to the book, her trembling hands lifting the journal so that she can read the words her husband wrote to her ten years ago. With a deep exhale, she sits cross-legged on the hardwood floor, reading Spencer’s chicken scratch he called handwriting with a heavy heart. And for the first time since his casket closed, she feels a sense of peace wash over her. She was going to be okay, despite it all, because he was hers just as much as she was his.

Continued A/N: Ahh!! Ghost!Spencer my beloved. :') JUST TO CLARIFY: I am not a JJ hater!! It just fit better for the story to have her be the one this all happened for. I hope you guys enjoyed reading this fic just as much as I enjoyed writing it. I look forward to sharing more in the future with you as my blog grows <3

K <3

#spencer reid #spencer reid smut #criminal minds smut #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid angst #spencer reid fanfiction #matthew gray gubler smut #mgg smut #virgin!Spencer reid #virgin!reader x virgin!Spencer reid

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thatdesigirl17 · 1 day ago

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only mine

toxic!theodore nott x fem!reader

warnings: theo being toxic, jealous and possessive, name calling/degradation, violence/fighting, swearing/cursing

requests are open! let me know if you want a smutty part 2!

Theodore Nott was beyond angered. Rage coursed in his blood and through his veins while he searched for the reason for his fury: Adrian Pucey.

Earlier that day Mattheo, his best friend, had told Theo that Adrian fancied his girlfriend, Y/N. Mattheo had overheard Adrian talking to his friends about Y/N, her face, her body, how he would like to have her to himself, how he’d fuck her and how perfect would it feel, how he’d grab her long hair and fist them and make her do all the things he wanted to do with her. Adrian almost sounded certain that he could make her forget all about Theodore.

Theo took long strides along the corridors of the castle, his dead eyes turning dark, his jaw clenched, his teeth gritted. Junior students were scurrying out of his way, seeing his fury evident on his sharp features. Just as he stepped outside the castle, the sight made his blood boil even further, if that was possible. He halted in his tracks, clenching his jaw even further.

Y/N was sitting on a bench with Adrian next to her side, both of them laughing. Adrian scooted closer to her, putting a strand of her hair behind her ear and caressing her locks that flowed freely down her back. Y/N shifted uncomfortably in her seat, but Theo couldn’t notice that not when he was blinded by his anger. He stormed towards the bench in the courtyard and just as Y/N was about to tell Adrian that she felt uncomfortable and he should stop, Theo fisted the collar of his shirt pulling him away and punched him right in the face, making the boy fall to the ground.

Y/N jumped to her feet, gasping and placing her hand on her mouth, surprised by the sudden actions of her boyfriend. Her eyes widened as the scene before her unfolded where Theo did not stop, he kept punching him to the point Adrian’s face was bloodied. There was blood splattered on the grass and on Theo’s knuckles. Theo’s eyes were still dark, full of anger and rage.

He crouched down and grabbed his jaw forcefully. ‘Ever talk to my girl or about her and you will end up in a state way worse than this.’, he spat, his face laced with a scowl as he let go of his jaw roughly before getting back up and kicking the limp body again in the stomach.

Theo then turned to Y/N, stepping closer to her, and invading her personal space. He towered above her, his face inches away from hers. ’What the hell were you thinking? Letting him touch you like that?’, he said narrowing his eyes, his voice laced with anger. ‘I- I was about to tell him to stop-‘, she tried to explain before Theo cut her off. ‘You’re such a fucking slut, going to anyone who gives you even an ounce of affection and letting them do whatever they want to you.’, he said, towering above her further making her eyes well up with tears. ‘Don’t cry now cara mia, wouldn’t wanna make a scene now, right?’, he said in a sickeningly sweet voice, his hands moving to cup her face, his thumbs brushing across her cheekbones, his touch almost tender, almost gentle. But his eyes betray his true feelings, the dark, stormy depths filled with a rage that threatens to consume him.

His hands moved to her shoulder, his fingers gripping the clothed flesh of her shoulders hard and rough enough to leave marks as he slowly turned her around making her feel every moment of his touch.

Once her back was against his chest, he fisted her hair, yanking her head back, making her whimper and exposing her neck. He pressed a kiss to her neck, sucking and biting hard, marking her as his. ‘Amore mio, I hate seeing you with someone else, it hurts me.’, he said against her skin. ‘Do you like seeing me getting hurt, bella?’, he asked innocently. On not hearing an answer, he bit down on her neck again, harder, whispering in a stern voice, ‘Answer me.’ ‘No.’, she whimpered, her voice quivering. ‘Good girl.’, he said, soothing her skin with his tongue and pressing gentle kisses to the fresh bruise on her skin.

Theo then pulled away, gently caressing her hair as he fisted them and slowly twisted them into a bun. He pulled the hair tie off his wrist and tied them up, his hand moving down to hold her by the back of her neck, while the other gripped her waist tightly. He leaned in, whispering in her ear, nibbling at her earlobe, ‘Only I have the right to see you with your pretty hair open and touch them, pull them. You seem to have forgotten that, bella. You’re mine and now I’ll have to remind you who you belong to for the rest of the day.’ He kissed her cheek slowly, resting his head on her shoulder. ‘Come on.’, he whispered before pulling her into the castle and to his dorm.

#theodore nott x y/n #theo nott x reader #theodore nott x reader #theodore nott imagine #theo #theodore nott #theodore nott smut #toxictheo #fanfic #writing #harry potter #hpimagines #slytherin boys #slytherin #hogwarts #wizardblr #theo nott #theodore nott x you

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rnadett · 3 days ago

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Here is your Big Fat Hero- Cailtyn 'defender' post

I somehow get that you think Caitlyn went too far, but so did the fandom. A lot of you talk about her as a 'dictator' and compare her use of The Grey to make her sound like Hitler, it seems people forget that she purposely used it only on her targets, not on civilians or all of Zaun. In fact, she even did a bit of a favor for Zaunites in the long term.

So let’s start analyzing the important aspects in a somewhat objective way. (Don’t mind my profile picture—I promise I'll try to be objective… or maybe not, who knows?)

EVEN after her mother died, Caitlyn still tried to protect the innocent in Zaun and tried to convincing the council not to start an invasion.

She even disagreed with Vi’s opinion on using the gauntlet (Hextech as a weapon), which we saw when she discussed it with Jayce.

This was her last scene before the attack on the memorial.

After that, we can clearly see how much it affected her; it fueled her anger (Good job, Ambessa—a true politician! No wonder Mel learned from her - except she is using it for better reasons). Yet, her anger wasn’t directed at civilians or all of Zaun.

Even then, she managed to call off the invasion, which she didn’t support in the first place. And after the attack, Vi talked her down in just two minutes—a point that hasn’t gotten enough credit, especially since it was her mother’s memorial.

This scene is also telling: there’s a storm brewing inside her, and while she wants to do the right thing, like protecting innocents from war, events escalate too quickly for her to reason through them and find a solution alone. Vi staying as her only remaining pillar in all this madness.

But yeah, her anger hasn’t faded just jet, but with Vi, they found an alternative—morally gray, but still better than risking a massacre between Zaun and Piltover.

And this is what they did. In the clip at the beginning of Episode 3, we see that they targeted ONLY gang members, not civilians in Zaun. I need to mention this a few times because there's already a misconception that Caitlyn and Vi are targeting or harming civilians.

But if you look at every frame, you’ll only see them going after gang members responsible for suffering and exploitation—Margot's and Chross's gangs, for example.

Oh, and let’s not forget, these were the people Isha was running from in the first place. A children!

So, Overall, this is just a continuation of what Vi tried to do in Season 1, but now with Caitlyn instead of Jayce (or alone).

So why does Caitlyn get all the blame?

As I see it, these actions were not hers alone; Vi was part of it too. In fact, this was Vi’s original plan (except the Jinx part, of course).

So, the point of my post is this: Yes, Caitlyn is heading in a bad direction, and killing—even gang members— with gas isn’t a good thing. But at this point, she and Vi haven’t harmed innocents. Despite how it looks, at least these actions prevent more innocent children, like Isha, from being harmed. Another question is where things will go now that Caitlyn has pushed Vi away (which I think was her only truly wrong action in Act 1).

Now Ambessa has taken Vi's place (in meaning of influence, not in any other way you little pervert) , and rather than calming her, Ambessa will fuel Caitlyn’s anger, grief, and self-hatred even more.

Oh my god, I love this scene. You can see the micro-expression on Ambessa's face, how satisfied she is, knowing how good she’s pulling the strings so far.

But I think we all feel that this match is far from over.

I also leave this here:

In the end, though, I believe that Caitlyn, no matter who’s currently influencing her, will have to decide her own path and who she truly is—without relying on anyone else. Even if we love her with Vi, this is something she needs to figure out ALONE.

Anyway, I might have written more in detail if Tumblr didn’t have a 10-image/post limit. Maybe I’ll make another post about the things I left out or would have expanded on.

#caitlyn kiramman #caitvi #arcane #arcane vi #vi arcane #arcane season 2 #arcane season 2 spoilers #ambessa medarda #mel medarda #jinx #jinx arcane #arcane s2 spoilers #arcane spoilers #arcane s2 #arcane discussion

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queenshelby · 2 days ago

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The Peaky Role (Part Six)

Pairing: Cillian Murphy x Reader

Warning: Dad's Friend, Best Friend's Dad

Over the days that followed your intimate scene with Cillian, the distance between you and Cillian suddenly felt heavy, like a fog settling after a rain.

You did not have any scenes together over the next two days, and each time you caught a glimpse of him, a subtle shift in his demeanor tugged at your mind.

Cillian would smile at you still, but something lingered behind those deep blue eyes, a hesitation you couldn't decipher.

Every time you crossed paths, he glanced away, returning to his work like you were a puzzle he couldn’t quite solve. It was almost like he was trying to avoid you and you did not know why.

Cillian kept his distance from you during rehearsals, focusing intently on his lines or conversing animatedly with other cast members, drawing a thin veil between you. You respected his need for space, but confusion knotted in your stomach each time you saw him laughing with someone else. His behaviour made you wonder about whether your father and Nina may have been right, that perhaps you working together so intimately would complicate things.

He was your best friend's father and your father's best friend and here you were, filming some intense scenes together.

The lines between professionalism and personal relations, even if innocent, blurred, and you couldn’t shake the thought that maybe the weight of your sudden physical closeness affected him more than you realised.

Maybe he felt weirded out by having to kiss and touch you or maybe he thought that you were overstepping some invisible boundary together by engaging in these acts on screen.

“Hey,” you said one afternoon, spotting him by the services table as he poured a cup of coffee.

He caught your eye but quickly focused on the steaming mug, fiddling with the lid.

“You good?” you ventured, stepping closer, your heart quickening with anticipation.

“Yeah, just, you know…” He took a sip, glancing away. “Busy.”

“Busy or hiding from me?” you teased, attempting to lighten the moment, but his smile barely touched his lips and you quickly regretted the jab.

“Why would I hide from you?” Cillian's voice remained steady, but his eyes darted to the doorway, as if searching for an escape.

"I don't know, maybe because of the last scene?" you suggested while nervously playing with the hem of your shirt. "I mean, it was a little awkward, wasn’t it?”

Cillian set the coffee down with a soft thud and finally turned to you, his expression shifting from a hunter stalking prey back to a familiar, softer gaze.

“So you thought it was awkward?” he pressed gently, gauging your response.

You shrugged, the corners of your mouth twisting into a tentative smile.

“A bit. But I thought we did okay, don't you think?" you asked as Cillian ran a hand through his greying hair before letting out a soft chuckle that warmed the air between you.

“Yes. I think we did too,” he said, his tone shifting, a hint of amusement flashing in his eyes. “But I am not quite sure how our respective families will react when they see the footage.”

You laughed, the tension easing just a fraction. “Yeah, I can only imagine my dad’s face," you continued, shaking your head in disbelief.

Cillian chuckled, a genuine warmth spreading across his features. "I don't think I would want to be in the same room when the scene plays out because, honestly, I didn't realise that it would be so graphic," he said, shaking his head lightly, his expression somewhere between amusement and resignation.

“Did you see the cut already?" you asked with a hint of suprise in your voice, but Cillian shook his head.

“Not cut but, as a producer, I saw the footage," he replied, swallowing the last bits of coffee before leaning against the table, sighing. “I thought it was going to look more like a soft-focus kind of scene, but what was shot really leaves little to the imagination.”

You leaned against the counter, mirroring his casual stance. “I guess it is what it is, right? Just art, doing its thing. You should think too much about it."

Cillian’s lips quirked in a faint smile, but his gaze grew distant as if he were peering beyond the chaos of filming.

“You are probably right but I have known your family for a long time Y/N and I just don't want this or any other scene between us to ruin some longstanding friendships," he continued, his brow furrowing with contemplation.

“Cillian, none of this is going to change anything between us or our families because it was an act and nothing more," you reassured him, focusing on the sharpness of his jawline that reflected the light above you.

“I hope you’re right,” he said before he shifted his weight, the tension in his shoulders easing just slightly. “Now, I have to go. I am glad we talked though," he said, his voice steady, yet something flickered in his eyes, a hint of vulnerability peeking through his facade.

In Cillian's mind, it was much more than just acting though as, what you did not know, was that, for the past two days he had wrestled with conflicting thoughts.

Cillian's attraction to you felt dangerous yet intoxicating to him, like standing too close to an open flame. The scene of you on top of him had ignited something in him he thought he could control, but it became harder and harder to do.

He turned abruptly, leaving you at the service table, feeling a mix of confusion and lingering warmth. You watched him go, wondering if you’d ever find out what really lingered behind those blue eyes as he slipped away into the crowd of crew members bustling through the set.

The warmth he left behind mingled with an ache of uncertainty, pulling you in different directions but, as the day wore on, you tried to focus on your scenes with the other cast members.

You had to focus and so you did. You finished your last scene for the week at around 5 o'clock and went back to your apartment to pack.

The early evening light filtered through the window as you tossed a few items into your bag—a pair of jeans, a couple of shirts, and essentials and, by around 10 o'clock, you arrived at the airport in Liverpool for you late night flight back to Dublin.

The airport buzzed with activity—a young family juggling bags, a couple bickering over boarding passes, and scattered travelers absorbed in their phones.

You looked for the Air Lingus check-in counter nervously, hating both flying and crowded places like this and, as you navigated the terminal, the familiar pulse of anxiety gnawed at your stomach.

You spotted the Air Lingus check-in counter and approached but, just as you were about to line up, you noticed him.

It was Cillian, standing two counters over, his hands resting lightly on the edge of the counter while he exchanged a few words with the agent, a brief smile flashing across his face as he spoke.

You took a deep breath, steeling yourself against the wave of nerves that surged through you.

“Cillian!” you called out, your voice cutting through the chatter of the airport.

He turned, his smile fading briefly, replaced with a look of surprise.

“Y/N!” he said as you joined him at the counter, the moment of unexpected connection releasing some of the tension that had built over the last few days.

“Guess we’re on the same flight," you said, shrugging as you tried to calm your nerves.

"Looks like it," he replied, his voice hesistant as you were called to the check-in counter next to his.

“Just my luck,” you said, forcing a light laugh as you handed over your papers to the agent, who checked your ticket with a distracted nod.

As the woman typed away on her computer, you stole another glance at Cillian and the way his brows knit together in concentration as he finalised his check-in at the neighbouring counter.

“Do you want to sit together?” the agent asked, glancing between you and Cillian with a raised brow.

Cillian hesitated, an almost imperceptible shift in his posture.

“It’s not necessary,” he said quickly, speaking at the same time as you, not matching your enthusiasm.

“Yes!” you blurted out, the eagerness escaping before you could filter it.

Cillian paused, his eyes widening slightly as the agent glanced between you two, a smile creeping onto her face.

“Yes or no?" she then asked as she leaned closer, waiting for a decision.

“Yes,” Cillian finally conceded, his lips twisting into a reluctant smile. "If that is no trouble."

The agent nodded and worked her magic on the keyboard. “There you go, seats 22A and 22B. Enjoy the flight!”

“Thanks,” you said, grateful for the small victory as you grabbed your boarding pass, the bright letters practically glowing in your hand.

Cillian fell into step beside you as you made your way toward the security line, his posture relaxed but eyes scanning the terminal with the ease of someone used to the attention that surrounded him.

Luckily for you both however, no one bothered to approach him for a photograph or an autograph, allowing you a few precious moments of quiet.

Eventually, and following some awkward silence between you, you arrived at the gate where people settled into their seats, a blend of chatter and the rustle of bags filling the air.

You found a place against the wall, leaning on the cool surface as you looked over at Cillian, who stood accross from you and put his way too expensive bag down by his feet. He removed his jacket, folding it over his arm with practiced ease, revealing a black t-shirt that perfectly matched his torn jeans.

"What have you been listening to?" you asked, watching him put his headphones away with a casual grace.

"As surprising as it may be, I've been on a bit of a Beatles kick lately," he replied, glancing your way, eyes softening at the casual conversation.

“Really? Which album?” You leaned in, intrigued as the atmosphere lightened between you.

“Rubber Soul,” he said, his voice steady, yet there was a flicker of excitement in his eyes. “I find there’s something poetic about it."

“It's totally underrated ,” you agreed, nodding enthusiastically. “The lyrics are so alive, like they really force you to think about relationships in a different way.”

"Come on, you listen to music that old?" he teased, a hint of disbelief dancing in his eyes. "Aren't girls your age more into whatever music is trending on, I don't know, Tik Tak?" he asked, causing you to laugh out loud.

"Tik Tak?" you chuckled, shaking your head. “You really need to update your references. It’s TikTok, not Tik Tak! And yes, I can appreciate good music regardless of the age of the tunes. A timeless song is a timeless song,” you said, crossing your arms, a playful defiance lighting your features.

Cillian raised an eyebrow, clearly impressed. “Well, you’ve got taste, I’ll give you that,” he said, his voice drifting as he leaned against the wall, mimicking your stance and crossing his arms, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips just as, finally, the boarding call came through the intercom, breaking the levity.

“Now boarding for Flight 232 to Dublin,” the voice announced, echoing through the somewhat sterile airport space.

Sitting not far from the front, you found your seats rather quickly and, just as a gentleman would, Cillian offered you the winow seat.

“Please, by all means,” he said, gesturing toward the window, his expression a mixture of chivalry and teasing.

"No thanks. You take it," you insisted, giving him a nervous smile.

"Are you sure?" He scrutinized your face, searching for any hint of insincerity.

“Absolutely,” you replied, nodding firmly which is when he realised that you were anxious.

He studied you for a moment, concern flickering in those piercing blue depths. “You really don’t like flying, do you?”

You swallowed hard, fingers fidgeting with the edge of your seatbelt. “No, not at all. I’ve always hated it. The noise, the cramped space—it feels like being trapped in a metallic coffin.”

Cillian chuckled softly, but his eyes remained serious as the cabin crew prepared for take-off and, eventually, proceeded towards the runway.

“Just breathe,” he said, turning his body slightly to face you, his expression shifting to something softer.

“Focus on your breathing,” he repeated, his voice weaving through the murmurs of other passengers settling in. “In through your nose, out through your mouth.”

"Jesus, you sound like my dad when he gives one of these meditation classes," you said, trying to stifle a laugh, though the anxiety still knotted in your stomach.

Cillian’s lips quirked, his expression softening. “I may have attended a few of them," he admitted, a playful glint in his eyes. “The man thinks that breathing exercises can solve everything. But you know what? They actually help sometimes.”

As the plane began to taxi, the cabin shook slightly, the vibrations sending a jolt up your spine.

You squeezed the armrests, feeling the familiar surge of nerves clawing at your stomach.

“Just focus on me,” Cillian said, his voice cutting through the swirling chaos around you. “Talk to me about anything. Just keep your mind off the flight.”

“I don’t know what to talk about,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper, the weight of the plane’s movements making your heartbeat quicken and, when the plane finally began its ascent, the sensation of lifting off the ground squeezed the air out of your lungs.

“Anything at all. What’s your favorite movie?” Cillian prompted, leaning slightly closer, his breath brushing over your ear but, what you did next, suprised him.

You grasped his hand, fingers curling around his warm palm, seeking comfort in the pressure of his grasp.

“Y/N?” Cillian blinked, caught off guard as he felt your grasp wrap around his hand, his breath hitching slightly.

“Sorry,” you murmured, embarrassment flushing your cheeks as you glanced at him. “It just…helps. I hate this part and I don't want to talk, okay? Not right now," you told him and Cillian nodded slowly, his expression shifting from surprise to understanding.

He wrapped his fingers gently around yours, steady and reassuring, creating a small oasis of calm amidst the chaos swirling around you.

“It's alright," he replied, his thumb brushing over your knuckles in a steady rhythm that felt oddly soothing.

The plane continued to climb, the cabin settling into a more stable altitude, but you still clutched his hand as if it were a lifeline in a tumultuous sea.

Once the initial turbulence passed, the sound of the engines settled into a steady roar, a low hum vibrating through the cabin.

“See? Nothing to worry about,” Cillian said, a calmness threading through his voice, the warmth in his grip anchoring you.

You nodded, but your eyes remained fixed on the screen in front of you.

The screen flickered with safety instructions, and you tried to focus, but your breathing came in quick bursts.

"Sshh, it's okay," Cillian said softly, squeezing your hand slightly. “You are going to be okay!"

You felt a warmth radiate from his palm, grounding you as the cabin ambiance began to calm, the chaotic whirring fading into a dull background.

“I’m fine,” you managed to say though the tremor in your voice betrayed your bravado.

"You sure about that?" Cillian raised an eyebrow, a hint of mischief glinting in his eyes as he glanced over at you , his voice laced with gentle teasing.

“Okay, maybe not entirely fine,” you admitted, biting your lower lip as you struggled between the flicker of embarrassment and the absurdity of the situation. “But you holding my hand helped a little.”

Cillian chuckled, his grip tightening ever so slightly as he let the warmth of the moment settle between you.

“Then I’ll keep holding it,” he replied, his voice low and steady like the rhythm of the engines and he kept up his word, holding your hand for the entire and, luckily, short flight.

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chimimon · 3 days ago

Text

Your Words

Astarion x f!Reader

Disclaimer! What you are about to read contains the following: suggestive, like more so than I have previously written, I think… jealously, biting, and it ends pretty abruptly because I don’t plan on posting smut here, so sorry about that y’all. If I missed any tags let me know! Please! Like fr send an ask my way and let chi know!!

& what I have to say is… This game has me in a chokehold. Baldurs Gate 3 has me in a headlock. Like unimaginably so. I’m hyper fixated all over again but this time a stupid fruity vampire calls me beautiful and asks to bite my neck and I asjdjwwsjidkekwakksdnb :) oh, and trigger warning for Halsin mention. <- E.P.

No eyeful sufficed; it was not enough to simply imagine being intertwined when the sudden ache began a week or so ago while Astarion had been playing with a blade. It was one of those things he did often enough to be called routine, ordinary, or unsurprising. What did not happen as often or routinely was how keen your attention had been on such fixed activities. A dozen times over you had traced his veins, memorizing when they were most defined on his knuckles, his forearms and whether it led to the toss of his knife or not. Worse than that, his sleeves were rolled up and around the two-minute mark he noticed your hypnotic gaze.

Curious, Astarion decided to see for just how long he could keep your attention as he made a show of stretching his fingers afterwards, adjusting his sleeves, rolling his wrists and shoulders before sitting onto the floor with his head in his hands to watch the fire from his tent. Only then did he turn his attention to you with a raised brow and all-knowing smirk. It was obvious you were unaware of your staring as you quickly turned away.

But it felt as though every ten minutes you would find something new about him to gawk at, and Astarion read you all too well. In frozen observation you hardly blinked in between shallow breathes. The deeper into thought you dove, the more your shoulders sunk, and the more your shoulders sunk, so dropped your eyelids.

The attention was reminiscent of your behavior at the Tiefling party. After he made his tipsy proposal, he carefully studied just how aware you were of the events to come in every interaction you had before the night ended. How restless you seemed when you lied coyly on your rolled bed. Or just how often you touched your face and neck as you met him in your shared hidden place. Astarion loved how clearly he took up your mind, how blatant it was. He reveled in your tunneled attention and patiently waited for you to give him the word, or a signal of sorts, feeling that it would be nice to have you initiate intimacy as he was secure in your thoughtfully lustful desire.

But no move was made.

Tonight, it seemed Gale had no issue making conversation with you from across the campfire as you two were loudly going over alchemy notes from a journal Astarion picked up just for you. You began to pull out leaves and branches from a pouch in your lap, holding them to fire for light as Gale leaned in studiously. It didn’t mean anything, Astarion was sure of it, but if he thought that if he was newly recruited or hadn’t known any better, he would’ve thought you and Gale were a thing within this flame lit scene which burned into Astarion mind as he replayed the last six days.

It was as though you were scared to be near Astarion, to get close to him, to talk to him, but with him alone. Watching him the way animals watch prey, but without any stalk in your stride, without a wiggle or means to pounce. Just heavy glances and light sighs. Karlach had snapped you out of this state a couple of times as it was in her nature to melt you into an easy, giggling mess. Wyll found something that reminded him of some grand adventure while walking a trail and you two seemed to bond over the found item, making Astarion snort. Shadowheart had also decided to warm up in your company and grew intent with whatever you had to say. The way she looked at you seemed far too soft and sticky for friendship and her demeanor buzzed inside of Astarion’s memory.

But the straw that broke the camel's back was Halsin. Despite you currently seated across Astarion, now handing over some mugwort to Gale, he could no longer ignore having overheard Halsin’s request to keep you company, and how inconsiderately close he was to Astarion’s tent moments ago. By then Astarion was just waiting for you to stop by to talk about it, unsure and indifferent to whether you wanted his permission to canoodle with Halsin. But when you b-lined to the campfire, a suspicious creeping feeling pushed him onto his feet to be seated on the log in front of you. Since he became aware of your careful watch, he noticed how keenly you avoided him and began to wonder if you watched him the way rabbits watch dogs; to run.

Gale would not stop talking, so Astarion took it upon himself to quietly appear beside him, peering over his shoulder with a tilted stare at you. When your eyes met and widened, Gale slowly, and unknowingly turned to Astarion before he could be cartoonishly and audibly spooked by the elven vampire's sudden appearance. Gale took it as a sign to leave and politely excused himself from your company. Those blood-soaked eyes followed Gale until he was hidden behind a couple bushes toward his tent.

Astarion seemed to be squinting, his eyes moving from yours, down to your mouth, before landing on your lap. You scrunched your nose when his gaze returned and he rolled his eyes before letting out an annoyed, airy laugh. “My love, should I be concerned?”

You were obviously uncomfortable with your lap sewn shut, and your posture too taut. “Concerned? About what?” Your brows furrowed before opening. Every muscle melted as you tilted your head, mirroring him. "I mean, I haven’t taken Halsin on any offer to play hunter and bear.”

He leaned back, deepening his stare, annoyed at your stiff disposition when that stupid wizard got to have you malleable and full of conversation.

You nervously smiled and averted your eyes. “You know I would ask if I ever wanted to-”

“Would...” He interrupted. “Of course, you knew I overheard his little, steamy proposal. But that’s not why I’m hurt.”

It was written all over your face that you were replaying the conversation with Halsin, trying to figure out where you may have gone wrong or if you sounded too open to the opportunity. Asatrion continued when you began to chew on your bottom lip. “Darling, you hardly look me in the eye anymore.” His chest deflated as he huffed out another whiny plume of air. “I mean, before I at least knew that you could talk to me about, well, all of this.”

All of this swiftly caught your attention.

“Astarion.” You calmly said, ignoring the ache you pressed between your thighs as you ran your hands over your lap. “What do you mean by ‘this’?” You could swear your heart was beating loud enough to let everyone in camp know that Astarion was the item of your mind consuming lechery. Gods, you could knead dough with how hard your palms pressed into your thighs in some feeble attempt to calm a carnal throb.

“This.” He whined with his hands apart, referring to you two. “Don’t be coy. You’ve been keeping an awfully close eye on me, and more than that you’ve kept your distance.”

“Oh.” You whispered, ripping away the steady eye contact.

“Oh? What do you mean oh-?”

“Astarion.” You stood up, awkwardly fidgeting your feet before you rocked back and forth from your heels to your toes. “Astarion can I... I can, um.”

Everything stiff and cold was interrupted with nervous stretching, like you were forcing yourself to warm up in his presence, and he was unsure if he should be bothered or relieved by it.

With mean sarcasm he said, “Your words, darling."

“Don’t- I mean.” You softly snapped, making him nervous. “Could we um… can we maybe speak somewhere private?”

Astarion shrugged, lifted off the log before motioning that you lead the way. When the way led to his tent, he got anxious. To him the conversation could go a couple of ways. One of them being you were too nervous to ask to be with Halsin, and that despite him willing to grant his permission, given his current mood, it would be reluctant permission to say the least. The other way was that you were unsure how to tell Astarion you couldn’t do it anymore. It meaning to be with him, and for that he couldn’t blame you, at least not honestly. The fear of you abandoning him after one good night, in what felt forever ago, grew as you motioned him to sit across from you, both of you on your knees as he watched you struggle once again to look at him in the eye.

He could practically hear it in your inhale, see it in your clenched fists over your knees, and in your eye contact as you finally faced him.

In your mind, everything felt intimate, close, hot even. You could feel your fingernails dig into your palms and you were sure you’d bleed if you balled your fists further. “I’m not sure how to word this without...”

He held in a vain breath, slowly nodding while you searched for the words.

“This is so stupid.” You grimaced, bring a knuckle to your teeth. “Astarion can I just-”

“You can see him.” He said with feigned relief.

“Who?” Your hands relaxed.

“Halsin.”

“What? No, wait.” Your whole body melted as you tried so hard to read the man in front of you. “What the hells are you talking about?” “You don’t have to be so embarrassed, I mean,” Astarion leaned back, sighing more dramatically as he had already come to terms with surrendering you over to him. “I mean who would I be to keep you-”

“Stop.” You held out your hands, shaking them with the same vigor used to shake your head. “Good hells Astarion, no.” You laughed, finally feeling ready to be open about your needs.

Astarion shot back up with a raised brow, tilting his head again as he drummed on his lap. “Okay, well now I really don’t know what you want to talk about.”

The growing silence was easy to bear in the sight of your smile, shy and bashful, making him a little hopeful that this was going to be an easier conversation.

“Great because I’m going to sound stupid.” You sheepishly smiled.

“As if I just didn’t.” He sucked in his teeth. “Come on darling, spit it out.”

“Not if you’re going to ask me to spit it out.”

“My sweet.” The snap in his tone caused you to really look at his face, and he looked anxious. His brows were together and lifted, he may as well have been pouting but you were finally noticing it. “If it’s distance you want, I can provide.” He looked down past your head before his eyes trailed around his space. “I mean you don’t have to go as far as to fighting battles as far from me as humanly possible.”

“Oh, good gods no.” You leaned down to catch his gaze once more. “Wait no that’s not what this is.”

“Then what the fuck is this?”

“I’m just feeling very…” you flicked your hands in the air like you were pushing away the anxiety. “I’ve been feeling rather needy lately.”

“Needy?”

“I don’t want to spell it out.”

“I think I need you to.”

“Damn it, Astarion.” It was clear he was going to quietly wait, as he was also sitting in front of your exit. “Needy, needy meaning… aroused... I’ve been very horny, lately.” With both hands on your face, you hunched over. “I’m sorry,” was muffled into your palms before your hands slid down to see his reaction.

Astarion had a bashful but at ease smile on his face. He let out a sharp laugh until he finally really looked at you. You were gripping your thighs, your eyes dilated and round. The animal like stare and careful distance kind of made sense. “And I thought I scared you away, sweetheart.”

“Quite the opposite.” You whispered, unable to maintain eye contact “So, if you’ll excuse me-”

Astarion hummed as he dropped in. His hands planted themselves on either side of your lap, his nose inches away from yours. “And if I won’t?”

Paralyzed, you held your breath and could feel your resolve snapping. “Astarion, I just… I said… are you sure?” He coyly rolled his eyes, pretending to think about it. “I can be patient.” You breathed, leaning back before he quickly scooted in, catching your chin in his hand before you could retreat.

“Oh, don’t go running away again. Not when I want you.” He was studying your eyes and lips. You seemed so lost in his tent. “Not when I need you.”

“You’ve had me, and I promise I can wait.” You whispered. “Please don’t tease me.” The quiet begging pulled at his chest and his desire.

Then Astarion smiled wickedly. “Don’t think I can’t smell the arousal from less than a foot in front of my nose.” Quickly he snatched your wrist. If your hand were a rabbit, and your wrist its neck, he nuzzled his cheek against its head, playfully biting the neck of the rabbit before you could try to pull away. “And I don’t care to tease pretty things like you,” poisonous desire spilled from his mouth as he asked, “But when you say needy, what exactly to you require of me?”

Mindlessly you shook your head as you feebly fought to take your hand back.

“Your words, darling.”

“Astarion, please this is-”

“Embarrassing?” He purred.

You held your breath as he faced your palm, from the corner of he could feel the heat in your face emit on his as he sighed again. “This couldn’t be nearly as embarrassing as the competition I have, my love.” A shit eating grin plastered onto his face as confusion appeared on yours. “You know... when your hand gets more of affection than I do.”

Humiliated and hot. You were completely humiliated and hot as he waited for you to respond.

“I mean your I’m sure your fingers can only do so much for so long in my place.”

Past embarrassment you felt it necessary to say “Astarion, you know that I need you beyond anything you can do for me.”

“So, you have been touching yourself, naughty girl,” he kissed your middle and ring finger without breaking eye contact.

“I- Astarion I wouldn’t have,” you balled up your hand in which his thumb smoothed it open again. With little force you pushed forward to cup his face with him still latched in your wrist. “I just- gods I just worry you wouldn’t say no if you didn’t want to just because I’m asking.”

“I do say no, & I have.” His hold loosened as he pulled back, taking in the soft concern on your face before the thought of that hand between your thighs flashed in his mind. Astarion’s eyes lids dropped, your kind concern caused him to be hard with arousal while his ruby eyes glistened. “Must I worry you won’t ask even if I’ll honestly say yes?”

Your bottom lip was white between your teeth, so he reached out to hold your jaw, his fingers pressing in as you went doe-eyed and dazed. He was so close to your lips, so he whispered on your mouth. “Go on, my sweetheart. Ask.”

“Astarion…” his breath tickled your bottom lip as your stomach dropped.

“Yes, darling?”

“Please…” you voice trailed off as the humiliation of it all set in.

“Please what?” Astarion lifted you up as he lifted on his knees, looming over you as he brushed your hair behind one ear with his free hand. “I don’t think I know what want.”

With all the excitement this brought, you quietly asked. “I want you to please kiss me. Please kiss me, Astarion.” And without a second lost, he pulled you into his hungry kiss, cupping your face with both hands as he pushed into you.

#astarion x reader #astarion x you #astarion x y/n #astarion x tav #bg3 x reader #bg3 x tav #bg3 x you #astarion

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gendrie · 3 days ago

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arya/gendry and ned/catelyn are not frequently considered alongside each other, but i think theres a surprising amount that they have in common as pairings. all four characters have explicit connections to one another within the story too.

obviously, arya has a relationship with both of her parents. that makes the fact that gendry has interacted with both of them all the more compelling to me. arya has a deep appreciation for her parent's marriage. she is the only stark child we see deeply value the love between ned and catelyn. it wasn't the most flashy, but it was a very successful and loving partnership between two people. especially by westeros standards.

GENDRY AND NED

Ned nodded. He decided that he liked Tobho Mott, master armorer. "If the day ever comes when Gendry would rather wield a sword than forge one, send him to me. He has the look of a warrior." (Eddard, AGOT)

when gendry met ned he was his typical outspoken, rude self, but this didnt bother ned in the slightest. by the end of the scene ned is trying to recruit gendry into his household. he promises on robert's deathbed to look out for his friends children thinking of gendry and the others. he did not get a chance to guard the bastards but arya looked out for gendry while they were together.

arya and gendry have a couple conversations about ned too. gendry isnt overly impressed but it shows a familiarity between the two. he knows her family history.

GENDRY AND CATELYN/LADY STONEHEART

"M'lady means for you to answer for your crimes." "M'lady." The wine was making her head spin. It was hard to think. "Stoneheart. Is that who you mean?" Lord Randyll had spoken of her, back at Maidenpool. "Lady Stoneheart." "Some call her that. Some call her other things. The Silent Sister. Mother Merciless. The Hangwoman." (Brienne, AFFC)

arya really wanted gendry to come home with her. she says she will tell her mother how he helped her, but gendry brushes this gesture off. he did not want to serve her family, but thats exactly what ends up happening. gendry was there when they found catelyn's body in the river and beric gave her his last life. now, he serves lady stoneheart and seems to have no issues doing so. he appears to be loyal to what remains of catelyn stark.

RIVERRUN

And one day fifteen years ago, this second father had become a brother as well, as he and Ned stood together in the sept at Riverrun to wed two sisters, the daughters of Lord Hoster Tully. (AGOT) You could have made swords at Riverrun for my brother, she thought, but what she said was, "If you want to be some stupid outlaw knight and get hanged, why should I care? I'll be at Riverrun, ransomed, with my brother." (ASOS)

ned and catelyn were married at riverrun; her childhood home and the same castle arya was trying to reach with gendry. i wouldn't rule the two of them actually getting there at some point as i think its likely the bwb will try to take riverrun in twow.

BROTHEL SCENES

“A brothel,” [Ned] said as he seized Littlefinger by the shoulder and spun him around. “You’ve brought me all this way to take me to a brothel.” “Your wife is inside,” Littlefinger said. It was the final insult. “Brandon was too kind to you,” Ned said as he slammed the small man back against a wall and shoved his dagger up under the little pointed chin beard. (AGOT) “I bet this is a brothel,” [Arya] whispered to Gendry. “You don’t even know what a brothel is.” “I do so,” she insisted. “It’s like an inn, with girls.” He was turning red again. “What are you doing here, then?” he demanded. “A brothel’s no fit place for no bloody highborn lady, everybody knows that.” […] Gendry put a heavy hand on the old man’s shoulder, and squeezed. “Leave her be.” (ASOS)

not your average scene setting for an asoiaf pairing, but both end up in brothels together. ned has one of his most aggressive outbursts when littlefinger suggests catelyn is a whore and gendry steps in to defend arya when she is mistaken for one too

MY LADY/M'LADY

Inside, Catelyn was waiting. She cried out when she saw him, ran to him, and embraced him fiercely. "My lady," Ned whispered in wonderment. (AGOT) "If you start calling me m'lady, even Hot Pie is going to notice. And you better keep on pissing the same way too." "As m'lady commands." (ACOK)

self explanatory but catelyn is ned's lady. gendry calls arya m'lady both in deference and anger.

AN OUTSIDER

He slid Ice back into its sheath. "You did not come here to tell me crib tales. I know how little you like this place. What is it, my lady?" Catelyn took her husband's hand. (AGOT)

"No," the old man said. "Northmen, they were. Savages who worship trees. They wanted the Kingslayer, they said." Arya heard him, and chewed her lip. She could feel Gendry looking at her. It made her angry and ashamed. (ASOS)

gendry is a southerner like catelyn so neither is fully comfortable with the faith of the old gods. its a cross cultural barrier both relationships share.

WEIRWOODS

Catelyn found her husband beneath the weirwood, seated on a moss-covered stone. The greatsword Ice was across his lap, and he was cleaning the blade in those waters black as night. A thousand years of humus lay thick upon the godswood floor, swallowing the sound of her feet, but the red eyes of the weirwood seemed to follow her as she came. "Ned," she called softly. He lifted his head to look at her. "Catelyn," he said. (AGOT) The next day they rode to a place called High Heart, a hill so lofty that from atop it Arya felt as though she could see half the world. Around its brow stood a ring of huge pale stumps, all that remained of a circle of once-mighty weirwoods. Arya and Gendry walked around the hill to count them. There were thirty-one, some so wide that she could have used them for a bed. (ASOS)

arya/gendry and catelyn/ned have scenes among the weirwoods or whats left of them. gendry becomes a knight of the hollow hill too.

HIS FURY

"They say your friend Robert has fathered a dozen bastards himself." "And none of them has ever been seen at court!" Ned blazed. "The Lannister woman has seen to that. How can you be so damnably cruel, Catelyn? He is only a boy. He—" His fury was on him. "That's right," he said angrily. "I'm too bloody lowborn to be kin to m'lady high." Arya was taken aback by the fury in his voice. "That's not the way I meant it." "Yes it is."

they fight! i really do think they strike a similar cord too. arya and catelyn feel comfortable arguing with them and ned and gendry do get angry but thats a normal aspect of all relationships

IN THE BUFF

So when they had finished, Ned rolled off and climbed from her bed, as he had a thousand times before. He crossed the room, pulled back the heavy tapestries, and threw open the high narrow windows one by one, letting the night air into the chamber. The wind swirled around him as he stood facing the dark, naked and empty-handed. Catelyn pulled the furs to her chin and watched him. (AGOT) For a moment she did not think he understood, but then he slid out from under the blankets. Naked, he padded across the room, shrugged into a loose roughspun tunic, and climbed down from the loft after her. (ACOK)

no comment

BEAUTIFUL

[...] Catelyn replied, watching the sword as he stroked it. She could see the rippling deep within the steel, where the metal had been folded back on itself a hundred times in the forging. Catelyn had no love for swords, but she could not deny that Ice had its own beauty. (AGOT) Then he'd go off to polish his helm. It was a beautiful helm, rounded and curved, with a slit visor and two great metal bull's horns. Arya would watch him polish the metal with an oilcloth, shining it so bright you could see the flames of the cookfire reflected in the steel. Yet he never actually put it on his head. (ACOK)

arya staring at gendry here is a solid indicator that she's developing feelings for him and the catelyn/ned scene supports that.

HONORS????

"Robert came all this way to see you, to bring you these great honors, you cannot throw them back in his face." "Honors?" Ned laughed bitterly. "In his eyes, yes," she said. "And in yours?" "And in mine," she blazed, angry now. Why couldn't he see? (AGOT) "Winterfell," she said at once. "I'd tell Mother how you helped me, and you could stay—" "Would m'lady permit? Could I shoe your horses for you, and make swords for your lordly brothers?" Sometimes he made her so angry. "You stop that!" (ACOK)

more arguing but in a distinctly old married couple sort of way. catelyn and arya are actually taking similar stances here, but ned and gendry rudely brush them off.

im not saying these were intentional on grrms part (at last not all of them) but i do think its highlights the romantic subtext between arya/gendry and that the similarities to ned/catelyn could certainly suggest some longevity to their relationship.

#asoiaf nonsense #gendrya #draft post #some of these are genuinely compelling comparisons imo #but a few are just coincidences #still fun

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honeyhotteoks · 1 day ago

Note

do you have any advice on like getting better with writing?

hey! i definitely do!! i’ve talked about this before but i have a lot of new readers, so ill start off by saying i’ve been writing for my entire life, and im 30 so thats a lot of years. if you’re a new writer, trust me i used to be there and good god if you guys could see the stuff i published in old fandoms 💀 really, really bad haha

i only say that because i by no means consider myself a great writer, there are fic writers in this space alone that i’m always so floored by and look up to…. but people have been very kind about my writing style and it’s something that took time to develop it’s not something i just “had”. outside of fic, i was a literature and creative writing major, and got very used to writing and workshopping pieces.

now! onto some actual advice —

1. read a lot and read more, but read stuff you actually like and not stuff you feel pressured to read. i love high brow litfic as much as the next pretentious english major, but i started writing a ton after reading a bunch of kindle unlimited romance because it was fun and it got me inspired

2. watch well written television for dialogue and pacing. people do not talk in proper english, they don’t say things eloquently, and there’s a lot of filler and fluff. that’s good! that’s real, so i love well written tv to show me how it’s done

3. get comfortable writing in weird ways. for years i used to sit down and be like “ah okay so chapter one” and then i was stuck, stalled out, and just felt bad about the process. when i started writing both aurora and tnt, i started in the middle. i had an image of a scene in my mind (for tnt it was actually the claim attempt) and i just wrote it out and then bounced around later

4. outlines are your friend! sometimes i’ll get a random line of dialogue in my head or an image but that doesn’t mean i’m ready to write it. i throw it in one big outline so i don’t lose it.

5. if you’re wanting to write really good smut i have two suggestions but please only do this to your personal comfort level. this is what works for me but do not make yourself uncomfortable— for good smut, i watch porn for reference and for good dirty talk, i listen to nsfw audio. i like to really write the visuals for smut and make it immersive but lol i haven’t experienced everything ive written about and logistics of the body are hard!! i usually find a video or an audio and let that help guide the imagery im writing.

6. be comfortable with the editing process. i know the temptation to post something the minute you finish it is there, but sleep on it. come back and edit it, read the dialogue out loud if you have to. i swear you’ll make the piece better just by leaving it and coming back.

7. don’t be afraid to post. most people are kind, and the worst thing that will happen is you don’t get a lot of notes. that’s okay, it’s a process.

8. research! as i’m writing anything, even a silly little oneshot, im doing research on something. i am hyper aware that im not korean and have never spoken korean or lived in korea, so for my fic i try my hardest to ground elements of that in reality. i truly cannot tell you how many hours ive spent reading like korean case law on revenge porn just for like 3 lines of dialogue. and you don’t have to go that crazy, i’m arguably too intense, but i do think some of that helps the story and the dialogue feel real.

9. describe something real- every place in my writing is based on something real. every apartment, hotel, cafe, venue, etc., they’re all either something i’ve found online or drawn from my life and use that to my advantage. i use apartment listings and save photographs, i do google map walks to see what neighborhoods look like, anything to get the feel of a place or an experience. for the christmas chapters of aurora, i watched hours of gwangju walking tour videos on youtube while i was writing just to understand how to describe their walk in the snow. it really helps me to have a visual that i can put words to.

10. find your weak points and see what other writers do differently. if you want to improve, you should find a small place to start. is it dialogue? overall plot? smut? etc. - i’ll never forget being on a creative writing retreat, and a very important writing professor said to me “everything you write is very pretty but you haven’t said anything. you have to decide to say something.” that feedback hurt, but sent me down a much better writing path when i realized where i was falling short and not challenging myself.

okay i hope some of this was helpful and if it’s a mess im sorry im on mobile. i really just love writing so deeply and will always talk about it, so i hope this was helpful 💗

#answered anon #honeyhotteoks thoughts

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heedthetenofwands · 3 days ago

Text

pirate!captainjohnprice x mermaid!femreader

You've sworn yourself to never trust humans. They are selfish. They betray and lie. They dance and twist around the truth as easy as drawing a breath.

And this captain was no different. He wasn't. He couldn't.

...Right?

or... in search for treasure, the 141 crew and the Shadow fleet finally land at their X on the map. But, where they expected gold, they find merfolk. And where Captain John Price expected just another mission, he found you.

Chapter 1

The sun winked at the pirate boat as she peeked over the horizon and through the clouds. Price smiled at her arrival through squinted eyes; their routine was familiar, but the sight always left him awestruck. The warm tones that flooded the deck meant he knew the men who slept beneath would wake soon.

He put out the candle to his side as he assessed the map once more. This thing they were after – what lay under that X – would be the most valuable treasure they would find yet, or so says Shepherd. The bounty would mean more supplies for the crew and a helping of meat at the market. Gods knew the last time they had protein that wasn’t fish.

“Mornin’ Cap’n.” He heard his quartermaster grumble as he joined him. Price glanced over to see Ghost, a dark headband over his hair and temple, with black fabric covering the lower half in his face. The fabric was marked with a faded image of the lower half of a skull. He turned to Price, kohl smeared eyes narrowing in on the map, “We're almost there aren't we?”

Price nodded then furrowed his brows in thought, “It’s doing my head in that we’re still in the dark.”

Ghost hummed a sound of agreement. "You sent that letter to Shepherd. He should reply soon.”

A loud yawn suddenly draws their attention to someone walking up the stairs from the lower deck to join them.

“Morning.” Gaz greeted them while rubbing his eyes. The early morning wasn’t the boatswain's scene – ‘pretty boy needs his beauty sleep’ Soap would tease before an eyeroll from said pretty boy. He came to stand on the opposite side of the table to Price and looks down at the map too.

A beat passes before, “Where’s Soap?” Price asks. The Scot could get skittish when there had been little action at sea - it had been three months since any sign of another ship.

Gaz sighed. “Harassing the chefs, captain.”

Price laughed, “He realises that they have no control over bread for breakfast?”

Gaz chuckles, “Nope. Has a whole conspiracy that they’re keeping the meat to themselves.”

Price smiles slightly at that, before he registered the shouts of the lower crew. Cries of ‘land ahoy’ sounded and speculative whispers soon spread round the deck as he and the rest of his team stepped out of the upper cabin to find the island they had been looking for. Price instinctively reached for his telescope to scan the area further. Bringing the looking glass to eye-level, he could see tall forests that no doubt hid bountiful flora and fauna deep in the jungle of the island, but the mainland was not where they would seek. Instead, he moved to focus on the caves to the far left before he yelled for the men to prepare the anchors and boats.

˚₊‧꒰ა . ——— ˗ˏˋ ✮ ˎˊ˗ ——— ˖ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

The battering heat of the sun was blocked by the looming cave walls as the pirates and their rowboats were swallowed by the midnight tones of the cave’s depth. The men helped each other light their torches as the boats followed down further into the cave. Price was confident that this was what they had been looking for; it was a perfect cove to hide a treasure.

They followed the narrow confines of the cave’s walls until the stream ended and they arrived in the cave’s centre. Price decided that he and his team would scope the area that was located further into the cave before he would let Graves and his Shadows perform a wider search. He relayed this much to the pirate who responded with a nod leaving him to let Soap and Gaz row to get ahead of the boats and closer to the shrouded land.

It was only when Price stepped off the boat and help up his torch to scope the ground did his eyes widen as he took in the image. As far as he could see, were merfolk asleep along the shoreline, covering practically every inch of where the waves could lap at their forms as they slept on the sand.

Bloody hell.

He and his men had been led to a merfolks’ rest.

˚₊‧꒰ა . ——— ˗ˏˋ ✮ ˎˊ˗ ——— ˖ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

The history of the merfolk and humans was rife with bitter blood and violent encounters. Price vaguely remembered the fragile truce that had recently transpired between the two, and he wasn’t going to be the one to crush it all for the sake of whatever treasure they were sent to find. He stepped backwards to return to the boat, keeping his eye on the merfolk in case they awoke. The men must have seen them too – their hushed murmurs fell to a choked silence - but Price couldn’t help a startled grunt at his body being pulled from under him. A strong and swift form had grabbed his legs and was dragging him into the deeper depths of the waters: down, down, down.

You were not letting this man or his men near your people.

You had been awakened by the light of his torch, a small but immediate starkness to the cave’s shadows allowing your eyes to narrow in on how the glow of the flames danced across the man’s face. He had prominent dark brown facial hair, and a dark coat covered his large form; you could see his eyes widen at the sight of what he had discovered. You knew what you had to do if you wanted to avoid a massacre; it must be done, you tell yourself once more as you watch him struggle for breath in your grasp.

However, this wasn’t Price’s first mermaid encounter. Bringing his knees to his chest as quick as he can, he brings your form close enough to grab your head and slam it to his knee. The force of it is dizzying and the few seconds of disorientation it costs you steals your victory.

By the time you open your eyes, you were being pulled from the water by a pair of large and rough hands, and a shocked gasp escapes you as the human lifts you so your back was held tight to his chest and his knife hovers above your neck. You keep your eye on the edge of the blade and attempt to calm your breathing. Your neck would be cut if it came any closer to your erratic breaths. Then, you lift your gaze to meet the horrified stares of your kind. You had failed so miserably. The knife at your throat was only a hint of the torture that would await everyone.

As you felt your mind resettling, you took note of how this human was holding your body up. He was strong, you could give him that. He shifts his hold on you to the side of his body so he could see the merfolk.

“We don’t want any trouble.” He spoke out. “We didn’t know you were resting here.” You clench your jaw at that, holding your tongue from saying something rash. It was obvious the others weren’t convinced of his words either as they started moving – he was in their territory right now - but he only narrowed his eyes, “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” He brings the knife too close - far too close - and as the panic rushes through your head you rear your face back, your arms push try to wrench his grasp on your but his grip remained strong. Your quickened and uncontrolled breathing lets his knife nick repeatedly at the surface of your neck. The growing trail of blood stops the merfolk where they are. They retreat from the human, and he mirrors their actions, pulling the blade away once more from you. The caves echo your last panicked gasps and you grit your teeth in frustration.

“Get on with it, human.” You seethe. You can feel his eyes narrow on the back of your head. You stare forward.

“Alright, here’s the deal.” His voice rumbles. “Like I said, we’re not here to cause trouble, you lot let us out of ‘ere, and I’ll release her at the entrance to return to you.” Your mouth dries up and your tail curls at his command. Liar.

The merfolk murmur at his words, many throwing you concerned and worried glances. Quickly, the talking stops and everyone is looking at you, waiting to see what you had to say. Closing your eyes, you know you had accepted your fate when you had been caught. You knew how men gutted creatures they hooked from the sea and still, you opened your eyes, looked at everyone for the final time and smiled as you nodded. You vaguely feel the human’s eyes watching you, before stepping backwards into the water. You keep your eyes on the surface of the water as he passes you into the arms of another human, he too hovers a knife over your neck, but it all came second to the numbing surrealness of the whole ordeal. This was it.

You hear your captor tell one of them to tie your hands. You grunt as a man you could only refer to as ‘skull-face’ drops you onto your stomach, you’re left winded by the sudden impact of the rough wooden floor of the boat. He ties your hands and when it’s over, he turns you to your side and leaves to join the captain.

You close your eyes.

You try to keep your head held up, so the side of your face wasn’t pressed into the sandy wet floor. The boat picks up speed and you hear the rush of water as the men follow the path to the cave’s entrance.

As if to comfort yourself before the end, you curl your tail inwards. But as you do, your fin catches the end of a blunt object. Tilting your head down and opening your eyes, you can see a small knife that lay at the end of the boat – it’s handle was close to your fins. If you stretched just enough, you could obtain it.

Your heart awoke with fervour at the chance to strike before they could put you down. You whip your tail towards the knife. It's just short that you have to absolutely stretch your tail's length to grip the end of the handle. With the blade in your tail's hold, you're worried that the men had heard your movements. You glance at the four, but their backs are still to you. Quickly, you swing your tail backwards and you manage to wedge the knife at the ropes which tied your hands.

You feel your heart hammering against your chest as you slowly move the knife back and forth and, finally, cut the rope around your hands. With your hands free, you brace your hands on the boat floor to push your torso up and turn your body to have your back on the floor. The exhaustion leaves you careless as the sound of your exertion causes the men to turn their heads to the back of the boat. Seeing that you're free, skullface immediately draws a pistol.

At first, you freeze. But, remembering your limited time alive anyway, you brandish the small knife at him with one arm while the other pushes against the floor to help you move your body to the back of the boat. Quickly, you feel your back hit the wooden end of the boat and all you can hear is your shallow breathing as you hold your puny knife at gunpoint.

The two men beside him have stopped rowing too, their gaze upon the stand off, shoulders tense and eyes wary.

“Stand down.” Your captor – their leader - commands. Skullface stills at that, and moves aside to allow him to walk towards you. You only glare and tighten the two-hand grip on the handle as the captain walks and kneels on one knee in front of you. Something about his tired eyes and the escape of a small sigh stops you from lunging towards his neck with the blade.

“We aren’t gonna hurt you.” And it’s stupid, the way you could almost believe him. You blame the burnt exhaustion you find lacing his tone instead of the sharp edge you had come to associate with the man. You don’t move the knife away. He’s unfazed. “What’s your name?”

You don’t waver, “Let me leave. Right now.”

“We will. When we reach the cave’s exit.”

“Liar.” You fire back immediately.

You hear another human’s voice from one of the boats that had been trailing behind. "What are you doing, Price?” He shouts – an irritated bark.

“Nothing, Graves.” Your captor responds back in a raised voice, “Give us a minute.” He tells him before turning those blue eyes back to you. “Look, we had no idea you were here.” He holds a hand over your heart, a gesture you recognised to mean as one of sincerity on land but here, on the sway of the ocean surface, it fell flat. Recognising your unconvinced look, he sighs, “Your people, they seem to care for you. They would have never let me, or my crew leave unscathed if it weren’t for your safety." He sees your brows furrow a little. A curiosity of where he was going with this speech soothed your hostility. “And whether you believe me or not, it’s the same f'me. If securing your safety brings my men a safe passage out of ‘ere. I’m not risking it.” With that, he holds out a hand, palm up. You remove your gaze from his as you try to gather your thoughts.

When you reflected on earlier, it made sense. Considering everything, it genuinely seemed that these humans had no idea that they would meet merfolk. You meet his eyes and the stern, but calm, gaze holds your own as you seem to surrender the blade to his hands.

But you swore to never let your fate rest on humans again. And that is what drives you to turn the blade on yourself.

You ignore the captain's yell as you drive the blade towards your heart. But he's quick and is able to wrap his hands over yours. Not enough to stop you, but he manages to divert your path from your beating heart to your shoulder.

You gasp at the cut, but your shock transforms to fury at realising what he's done. You lock eyes with the human and try to pull the blade out. Perhaps you may get lucky and bleed out.

No such luck. The blade remains wedged, the captain keeping his grip. Before you realise it, he has his other hand grab your wrist before turning your body around and pinning you back down on the ground. He ignores your curses, effortlessly keeping you pinned to the floor. Instead, he shouts out to his men, you don't know or care what for but you figure it out nonetheless when you feel your hands being tied again and a blindfold obscuring your vision.

You don't stop resisting - if you're to die, let it be at the hands of the sea - but eventually, he leaves you alone and you feel the boat start up again. And whether it was the fear, panic, your wound or even being out of the water this long, everything fades to nothingness.

˚₊‧꒰ა . ——— ˗ˏˋ ✮ ˎˊ˗ ——— ˖ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

A frantic getaway from the cave and the swarms of raging mermaids and mermen leaves the pirates to regroup and reflect back on the ship. Price and his men look over the map once more, double checking and confirming their location, while some men are treated for their wounds and others start filling an empty crate with water for the mermaid.

Price hears a couple whistles from the deck. The questioning gaze he sends his men draws a somewhat awkward moment.

A beat passes before Gaz coughs, “The mermaid, cap, they’ve put her in the crate but she’s a bit exposed now that we’re in the sun.” Price narrows his eyes at that before turning away from the table and makes his way down the deck to the crate.

“Something interesting here, men?” He sternly asks the small group of pirates that had crowded around the mermaid. They straighten up and turn to face him.

One of them pipes up, “Nothing, cap, just not every day you see a mermaid.”

“Could say the same for a pair o’ tits for you, mate." Another cuts in with a smirk.

“Enough. Leave her alone until we figure out what to do.” Price orders and the men disperse. Price is about to turn to turn away and regroup with Graves and his men but catches your form still bound and exposed.

Your eyes were shut, and someone must have removed the knife to place bandages around your shoulder. Price notes and simmers at the unnecessary cruelty of leaving your chest uncovered. He begins to unbutton his waistcoat and, once he pulls it off, cuts free the rope on your hands. He doesn’t let his eyes wonder over the glow of your skin in the sunset lighting, instead, methodically slipping your arms through the waistcoat's holes. Price ignores the feel of the brush of his fingers over your skin as he fixes the buttons before walking away.

Approaching his men and Graves, he doesn’t miss the way Ghost narrows in on his missing waistcoat.

“Graves.” He says. This stops the man’s chatter with his shadows. “A word.” At that, the others leave their leaders on the upper deck. Graves is nonchalant, sharpening a knife as he waits for Price.

“What seems to be the problem?” He asks, the cadence of his voice gives the question a knowing tone.

“The problem is I have an injured mermaid on my ship Graves, that wasn’t part of the deal. We came here for treasure, not to stir up trouble with the merfolk.” Price can feel the pressings of a migraine settling so he tries to focus on the warm dying embers of the sky. “Now with us practically holding one of them hostage, we’re never going to be get back in that cave. It will be even worse when she dies. What do you suppose we do?”

Graves stops sharpening the knife, holding it up to see it in the final rays of the sun, “This is your problem, Price. You think our treasure is some kind of chest of gold but it’s not.” He walks towards Price, removing something from his pocket and then holds it out to him. A letter.

“This arrived for you yesterday, from Shepherd. Thought it was for me, sorry.” Graves commented, unapologetic. Price clenches his jaw but accepts the paper. He opens it up and there laid a single phrase: Keep it alive.

“He wants a mermaid?” Price says, taken aback.

Graves hums. “I suppose, how does that saying go? Not all treasure is silver and gold.”

At that. Price lets his eyes go back to you, the setting of the sun had you washed in a glow of warm tones, eyes still shut tight, head lolled to the side so he could see the crane of your neck and his dampened waistcoat clinging to your form.

You may not have been gold coins, but right there, you glinted in the sun like one.

˚₊‧꒰ა . ——— ˗ˏˋ ✮ ˎˊ˗ ——— ˖ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

Note: this was born from a hyperfixation/love for john price, the pirates of the carribean movies and mermaid aus, with that please forgive any inaccuracies with piracy and in general tbh (><). Hope you enjoy (^^)!!

Thank you sm for reading (^^) !! If you want to be notified for chapter 2, you can follow my page as I'll solely be posting fics <3 Much love for likes, reblogs and comments (><)

#price x reader #captain price x reader #captain john price x reader #mermaid au #call of duty fic #john price #captain john price #price cod

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