#Forgotten Crypts

[groriatrevi10xx]

...Ciudadela y Villas/Citadel and Villas...

...¡Throne Labyrinth!...

⭐Capital Neutral/Neutral Capital:

"De hecho, la primera idea de los Primeros Gobernantes de los Hechiceros era colocar su hogar lejos de las espinas, pero al final decidieron colocar la Capital Neutral en medio de un campo de espinas que fueron quitando poco a poco, para crear un hogar y construir un nuevo Castillo, algunas casas nuevas... Aún se desconoce de dónde vinieron los Hechiceros, sólo que tomaron este Mundo para habitarlo.../In fact, the first idea of the First Rulers of the Sorcerers was to place their home away from the thorns, but in the end they decided to place the Neutral Capital in the middle of a field of thorns that they removed little by little, to create a home and build a new one Castle, some new houses... It is still unknown where the Sorcerers came from, only that they took this World to inhabit it...

La Capital Neutral es donde se construyó el Hermoso Castillo Blanco... La Ciudadela es hermosa, llena de casas enormes y hermosos escaparates, un lugar perfecto para caminar con pisos empedrados, hermosa fauna y flora... Rodeado de espinas por donde quieras vayas, donde vayas, hay canales de agua que salen desde arriba o desde debajo de la tierra... Una vista brillante... Donde siempre puedes salir y sentirte seguro, mientras los árboles te protegen del sol... Sólo ten cuidado con las espinas.../The Neutral Capital is where the Beautiful White Castle was built... The Citadel is beautiful, full of huge houses and beautiful shop windows, a perfect place to walk with paved floors, beautiful fauna and flora... Surrounded by thorns everywhere you want Wherever you go, there are water channels coming out from above or below the ground... A brilliant sight... Where you can always go out and feel safe, while the trees shade you from the sun... Just be careful the spines..."

🖋️Runas/Runes:

"En medio de las montañas, y muros destruidos con runas escritas en cada viejo muro lleno de plantas, raíces y flores... Allí está el Pueblo de las Runas... Exactamente un lugar cubierto de piedras, pero un lugar donde el viento hace eco... Un lugar frío pero luminoso.../In the middle of the mountains, and destroyed walls with runes written on each old wall full of plants, roots and flowers... There is the Town of Runes... Exactly a place covered in stones, but a place where the wind makes eco... A cold but bright place...

Su creación y sus habitantes propiciaron la creación de la lengua y escritura del Reino... Este lugar está cubierto de musgo y muchos canales de agua, son fanáticos de la escritura y los libros, es común ver una biblioteca o librerías alrededor aquí... Lleno de faroles y acogedoras casas de madera, un hermoso lugar para cualquier amante de la lectura... Con caminos de tierra y puentes de madera, que hermoso lugar suena.../Its creation and its inhabitants led to the creation of the language and writing of the Kingdom... This place is covered with moss and many water channels, they are fans of writing and books, it is common to see a library or book stores around here... Full of lanterns and cozy wooden houses, a beautiful place for any reading lover... With dirt roads and wooden bridges, what a beautiful place it sounds..."

💮Jardines Blancos/White Gardens:

"Debajo de un enorme agujero en alguna parte, bajando con cuidado unas escaleras de mármol... Ahí están los Jardines Blancos, un lugar hermoso con casas hechas de piedras y madera, un lugar lleno de flores, los animales caminan por aquí normalmente... Se cuelan entre los arbustos o árboles llenos de flores... Una lluvia de pétalos cae cuando el viento sopla por los caminos empedrados.../Under a huge hole somewhere, carefully descending marble stairs... There are the White Gardens, a beautiful place with houses made of stones and wood, a place full of flowers, the animals walk around here normally... They sneak between bushes or trees full of flowers... A rain of petals falls when the wind blows along the cobbled paths...

Es normal que aquí vivan Hechiceros relacionados con la Naturaleza, aunque aquí hay muchas más Hadas y otros seres mágicos... Es un buen lugar para vender flores y pociones increíbles, de allí siempre salen los carros con flores en racimos, si te gusta visitar florerías o vivir en una casa de piedra o madera, despertarte y poder ir a los parques mientras los pétalos caen sobre tu rostro... Realmente es un lugar para ti.../It is normal that Sorcerers related to Nature live here, although there are many more Fairies and other magical beings here... It is a good place to sell flowers and incredible potions, the carts always leave from there with flowers by the bunch, if you like visiting flower shops or living in a stone or wooden house, waking up and being able to go to the parks while petals fall on your face... It really is a place for you..."

💎Villa Granate/Villa Garnet:

"Precisamente la Villa Granate está lleno de Minas de Oro y Diamantes, exactamente muchos tipos de minerales... El Pueblo está al lado de las minas, de sus suelos salen piedras de colores luminosos, de los faroles cuelgan pequeños cristales de colores... Mientras todo brilla con colores intensos alrededor del lugar… Un pueblo especializado en minas, armamento y joyería…/Exactly the Villa Garnet is full of Gold and Diamond Mines, exactly many types of minerals... The Town is next to the mines, luminous colored stones come out of its floors, small colored crystals hang from the lanterns. .. While everything shines in intense colors around the place... A town specialized in mines, weaponry and jewelry...

En sus fosos de tierra a veces se puede encontrar alguna joya perdida que se ha caído de una vía de carreta, sus casas son de ladrillo y cemento, el lugar está lleno de joyerías y tiendas de armas, un lugar que trabaja día y noche... El fuego en las chimeneas arde en reconocimiento, bailan y cantan... Un lugar maravilloso si siempre te ha gustado el ruido, el orgullo nace en el corazón de cada Hechicero aquí.../In its earthen pits you can sometimes find a lost gem that has fallen off a wagon track, its houses are made of bricks and cement, the place is full of jewelry stores and weapons stores, a place that works day and night... The fire in the fireplaces burns in recognition, they dance and sing... A wonderful place if you have always liked noise, pride is born in the hearts of every Sorcerer here..."

🌧️Rincón de las Nubes/Cloud Corner:

"¿Te gustan las lluvias que nunca terminan?, ¿Te fascina el viento frío y helado?... ¡Pues este podría ser tu lugar!... En algún lugar, en lo alto de una enorme montaña, se encuentra este pueblo... Lleno de lluvia incesante y viento frío, las gotas golpean el suelo empedrado y las bonitas casas de madera, mientras las nubes tapan el sol... Los faroles iluminan el lugar... Allí hay pequeñas cascadas y pequeña fauna naciendo, aunque el musgo es más común... Sigue siendo bonito.../Do you like the rains that never end? Are you fascinated by the cold and icy wind?... Well, this could be your place!... Somewhere, on top of a huge mountain, is this town... Full of incessant rain and cold wind, the drops hit the paved floor and the pretty wooden houses, while the clouds cover the sun... The lanterns illuminate the place... There are small waterfalls there and small fauna being born, although it is moss is more common... Still pretty...

De aquí surgió exactamente la primera moda, aunque no suene creíble... Muchos pensarían que sería un estilo lluvia, pero no... Aquí están las mejores costureras y modistas, vaya... Además de ser los Reyes de la gastronomía, mientras subes las escaleras para llegar al lugar o simplemente te teletransportas, te maravillarás con solo oler las maravillas y ver los escaparates, solo trae un paraguas y un suéter… Se recomienda…/This is exactly where the first fashion came from, although it doesn't sound credible... Many would think it would be a rain style, but no... Here are the best seamstresses and dressmakers, wow... In addition to being the Kings of gastronomy, While you climb the stairs to get to the place or just teleport, you will marvel at just smelling the wonders and seeing the shop windows, just bring an umbrella and a sweater... It is recommended..."

🧊Valles de Cristal/Crystal Valleys:

"La nieve está por todos lados, en cualquier rincón... En cualquier lugar, la temperatura es tan bajo cero en este lugar lleno de nieve y hielo, pisos resbaladizos y cabañas de madera con uno que otro carámbano colgando, la iluminación son hermosas antorchas que no se apagarían con el fuerte viento, mientras los copos de nieve caen con mucha existencia... Aún se escuchan las risas y algunas personas patinando sobre algún lago helado.../Snow is everywhere, in any corner... Anywhere, the temperature is so below zero in this place full of snow and ice, slippery floors and wooden cabins with one or another icicles hanging, the lighting is beautiful torches that would not go out with the strong wind, while snowflakes fall with a lot of existence... You can still hear the laughter and some people skating on some frozen lake...

Aunque es un lugar muy frío, muchos de los Paladines viven aquí sin motivo, no todos... Pero algunos incluso lo han llamado en ocasiones el rincón de los Paladines, lleno de frío constante... Pero lleno de risas, cosas calientes y buenas chimeneas... Un lugar perfecto para cualquier amante del frío, probablemente también de la adrenalina o la supervivencia.../Although it is a very cold place, many of the Paladins live here for no reason, not all... But some have even sometimes called it the Paladins' corner, full of constant cold... But full of laughter, things hot and good fireplaces... A perfect place for any lover of the cold, probably also adrenaline or survival..."

🎵 Bosque del Canto/Song Forest:

"¿Te gusta el Teatro? Probablemente el Bosque del Canto si... En ese pueblo la educación siempre fue importante, por eso hay museos y bellas artes por todos lados... Lo más importante, la actuación... El enorme teatro Se levanta entre todos los árboles alrededor, lleno de obras que vendrán y se harán... No te puedes perder estas maravillosas funciones.../Do you like the Theater? Probably the Song Forest if... In that town, education was always important, that's why there are museums and fine arts everywhere... The most important thing, the acting... The enormous theater It rises from all the trees around, full of works that will come and be done... You cannot miss these wonderful functions...

Solo mira sus faroles, calles empedradas por donde pasan carruajes, disfruta mirando los restaurantes, los hermosos parques iluminados y las casas de mampostería, puedes escuchar a la gente hablando por todas partes... Mientras el Bosque te protege, escuchando a los pajaritos cantar hermosas melodías, un lugar fantástico... ¿Vienes?.../Just look at its lanterns, paved streets where carriages pass, enjoy looking at the restaurants, the beautiful illuminated parks and the masonry houses, you can hear people talking everywhere... While the Forest protects you, listening to the little birds sing beautiful melodies, a fantastic place... Will you come?..."

🐟Abismo Coralino/Coral Abyss:

"Pasando los árboles y las grandes montañas, hay una hermosa playa, donde navegan barcos, donde abundan las palmeras y los cocos... Pero, no es sólo una playa, allí vive un pueblo... Chozas de bambú flotan en medio de toda el agua, alrededor de la playa también hay casas y muchos comercios para refrescarse con cualquier bebida, incluso comer algo de marisco.../Passing the trees and the great mountains, there is a beautiful beach, where boats sail, where palm trees and coconuts abound... But, it is not just a beach, a town lives there... Bamboo huts float in the middle of all the water, around the beach there are also houses and many shops to refresh yourself with any drink, even eat some seafood...

Aunque aquí el comercio de pescado es una fortuna, al igual que sus caminos de madera y hermosas antorchas de fuego, con música sin parar, bajo el agua también hay casas de mampostería con algas a su alrededor, los peces nadan y rodean el lugar y los caminos de arena tienen una que otra perla tirada por ahí, los corales tienen pequeñas lámparas colgando... Aún se oye el ruido de arriba y los barcos que pasan... Siempre puedes elegir si prefieres la superficie o el fondo del mar, wow... Aún el Sol golpea con entusiasmo.../Although the fish trade is a fortune here, as are its wooden roads and beautiful fire torches, with music played non-stop, under the water there are also masonry houses with algae around them, fish swim and surround the place and the sand paths have one or another pearl lying around, the corals have small lamps hanging... You can still hear the noise from above and the boats passing by... You can always choose if you prefer the surface or the bottom of the sea, wow... Still the Sun hits with enthusiasm..."

🏜️ Vientos Desérticos/Desert Winds:

"Lo único que se ve aquí es arena y mucha arena, algún que otro Captus y muchos Arbustos Rodantes... Es obvio, es un desierto... Hay casas de madera y chapa, amantes del Alcohol... Entonces las cantinas aquí están por todos lados, además de ver bebederos en algunos puestos de botas, sus caminos son de arena y la iluminación son velas que se colocan alrededor del lugar.../The only thing you can see here is sand and a lot of sand, one or another Captus and many Rolling Bushes... It's obvious, it's a desert... There are houses made of wood and sheet metal, lovers of Alcohol... So the cantinas here They are everywhere, in addition to seeing drinking fountains in some boot stalls, their paths are sandy and the lighting is candles that are placed around the place...

Las tormentas de arena son comunes, el sol brilla por todas partes, dejando la arena caliente día y noche... Llevar sombrero y chal, también se recomiendan botas... Aquí hay granjas y afuera mucha gente usa sombrero y monta a caballo; o solo se ven niños jugando con una herradura y buena puntería... Este lugar parece sacado de una película del oeste, aunque es un gran lugar si te gusta este tipo de clima con un sol abrasador.../Sand storms are common, the sun shines everywhere, leaving the sand hot day and night... Wear a hat and a shawl, boots are also recommended... There are farms here and many people outside are wearing hats riding horses; or you can only see children playing with a horseshoe and good aim... This place looks like it came out of a western movie, although it is a great place if you like this type of climate with a hot sun..."

☀️ Sagrada Luz/Holy Light:

"Las islas flotantes en el cielo siempre parecen sacadas de un cuento de hadas, pero no para el hogar de los Hechiceros... Este enorme pedazo de tierra y piedra flotante, exactamente flotando... Flota en el cielo, el agua cae de él y raíces cuelgan de los árboles... Parece un espectáculo de ensueño, rodeado de nubes, arriba hay un pueblo... Que mira desde su tierra flotante al Mundo de abajo... Para que no se mueva, hay cadenas atadas a él de arriba a abajo, manteniéndolo en su lugar... No olvidemos las brillantes escaleras de piedra flotante y una barandilla dorada, para subir al lugar.../Floating Islands in the sky always look like something out of a Fairy tale, but not for the home of Sorcerers... This huge piece of floating earth and stone, exactly floating... It floats in the sky, water falls from it and roots hang from trees... It seems like a dream spectacle, surrounded by clouds, above there is a town... That looks from its floating land at the World below... So that it does not move, there are chains attached to it from top to bottom, holding it in place... Let's not forget the sparkling stairs of floating stone and a golden railing, to climb to the place...

Hoy en día nadie necesita escaleras, pero se ven bonitas... Ya sabes, teletransportación u otros medios más rápidos, en fin... El Pueblo es una maravilla con sus caminos de tierra y puentes de piedra, sus casas son combinaciones, algunas son solo cabañas y otras realmente son de mampostería... Tienen muchos tipos de frutas que a veces comercializan, sus tiendas son extensas, siempre hay lugares donde puedes relajarte y puedes ver el paisaje, aunque ten cuidado de no caer.../Nowadays no one needs stairs, but they look pretty... You know, teleportation or other faster means, anyway... The Village is a wonder with its dirt roads and stone bridges, its houses are combinations, some are just cabins and others are really made of masonry... They have many types of fruits that they sometimes trade, their stores are extensive, there are always places where you can relax and you can see the landscape, although be careful not to fall..."

🕷️Criptas olvidadas/Forgotten Crypts:

"Criptas... Ya saben, el nombre que se le da a un lugar donde está enterrado un ser fallecido, exactamente en este Pueblo... Bueno, hay muchos comentarios, Los Hechiceros podrían ser casi inmortales... Casi, pero hay muchas cosas mágicas que pueden matarlos, por eso existen estos lugares... Nadie sabe por qué fueron creados... Pero este Pueblo existe y les encanta vivir entre los ya caídos... Para entrar, primero debes encontrar un extraño monumento con formas y una puerta, al entrar solo encontrarás escaleras… Bajando y bajando, encontrarás un pequeño pueblo subterráneo, lleno de cementerios…/Crypts... You know, the name given to a place where a deceased being is buried, exactly in this Town... Well, there are many comments, Sorcerers could be almost immortal... Almost, but there are many magical things that can kill them, so that's why these places exist... Nobody knows why they were created... But this Town exists and loves to live among the already fallen... To enter it, you must first find a strange monument with shapes and a door, upon entering you will only find stairs... Going down and down, you will find a small underground town, full of cemeteries...

Aunque los monumentos y las telarañas tienen mala pinta, el lugar es agradable, más o menos... Hay árboles algo secos alrededor del lugar, el agua que cae por canales es algo ruidosa, aun así sus suelos de mármol son agradables, sus casas son hogareñas de ladrillos... Su aire oscuro trae consigo el frío, pero nunca estás solo con gente rompiendo piedra para hacer una escultura o viéndolos hacer pequeñas cosas de porcelana... Es un lindo lugar, ¿no?.../Although the monuments and cobwebs look bad, the place is pleasant, more or less... There are somewhat dry trees around the place, the water that falls through canals is somewhat noisy, even so its marble floors are pleasant, its houses are homely bricks... Its dark air brings with it the cold, yet you are never alone with people breaking stone to make a sculpture or watching them make small porcelain things... It's a nice place, isn't it?..."

🍯Acantilado Azucarado/Sugar Cliff:

"Su nombre lo dice, acantilado... Este pueblo está exactamente al borde de un acantilado, muy loco... Pero tiene una vista increíble, al menos... El pueblo es hermoso, hay cabañas de madera por todas partes y muchas tiendas de Dulces... Hay demasiada caña de azúcar, creciendo por todas partes... Este lugar siempre se ha dedicado a crear azúcar, luego empezaron a crear dulces... Su especialidad siempre ha sido esa, algunos dulces se distribuyen por todo el mundo... Probablemente algún dulce más goloso acabe en el Castillo.../Its name says it, cliff... This town is exactly on the edge of a cliff, very crazy... But it has an incredible view, at least... The town is beautiful, there are wooden cabins everywhere and many candy stores... There is too much sugar cane, growing everywhere... This place has always been dedicated to creating sugar, then they started creating sweets... Their specialty has always been that, some sweets are distributed all over the world... Probably some more greedy sweets end up in the Castle...

Si te gusta oler dulce todo el tiempo, realmente no es mal lugar... Las risas nunca faltan, mientras los fabricantes trabajan, cortando caña o trayendo frutas o saborizante, siempre con prisa... Dispuestos a trabajar y crear sus magníficos dulces algunos solo decoran el empaque, es como una fábrica... Aunque no todos viven allí por eso, sino sólo porque les gusta el lugar... Mientras los faroles brillan y los niños juegan en el parque, lo normal de todos los días... Sólo una cosa más, no mires al acantilado.../If you like to smell sweet all the time, it's really not a bad place... Laughter is never lacking, while the manufacturers work, cutting cane or bringing fruit or flavoring, always in a hurry... Willing to work and create their magnificent sweets Some only decorate the packaging, it's like a factory... Although not everyone lives there for that reason, but only because they like the place... While the lanterns shine and the children play in the park, the normal thing of every day ...Just one more thing, don't look over the cliff..."

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G: ¡Dime que son 12!, ¡porque conté 12 y originalmente son 12 igual que el Mundo Oscuro!... ¡Ahhhh!.../Tell me there are 12!, because I counted 12 and originally there are 12 just like the Mundo Oscuro!... Ahhhh!...

[tilac-f-f]

Who is she? Lore please?

[dicegrimorium]

Greetings!

The adventurers have descended into the dark crypts below the unholy cemetery. Inside they hope to find the undead lord, who has risen from his grave once more to terrorize the living.

Many rooms they'll have to search, and many undead enemies will they encounter in their path, but eventually they'll find the resting place of the powerful lich.

Can they put an end to this unholy menace, or will they be defeated by the forces from beyond the grave?

You can see a preview of this map’s Patreon content by clicking here.

If you liked the map I’d be extremely thankful if you considered supporting me on my Patreon, rewards include higher resolution files, gridless versions, alternate versions, line versions, PSDs and more. Thank you!

[bunnis-monsters]

Late night thoughts about incubus husband…

He’s such a flirt. Every time you go out he dons a different human disguise. It’s always annoying seeing him flit about the bar, changing himself to cater to whichever person he’s talking to.

Really, your husband just wants to make you jealous. He’s a bit of an attention whore, and usually you’d just tug him away and ride his cock until he’s sensitive and crying, begging to fill your cunt with his cum but being denied because of how bad he was.

But he went a bit too far tonight.

You were finishing off your drink when you spotted him across the bar, his fingers twirling a woman’s hair. Already this was a bit much for you, and you stood to stop him.

But you froze in place when his eyes glanced towards you before he wrapped an arm around her waist. “Looks like I’m taking home a pretty lady tonight. Don’t worry, my wife won’t mind.”

He glanced back to gauge your reaction, excited to face some kind of kinky punishment for being a flirty brat… but instead he was met with your teary eyes.

Instantly the woman was forgotten as he followed you out. “W-wait, please, you know I wasn’t being serious, right? I was just-“

You turned on your heels, pointing a finger into his chest. “Maybe to someone like you marriage is just some kind of fun game, but it actually means something to me! I don’t exactly enjoy you treating my love for you like a joke!”

His eyes went wide with shock and hurt, his disguise disappearing as he reverted back to his original form. The sight of his tail twitching nervously almost made you soften… almost.

“My love… that’s not-“

You swatted his hand away, storming off. “… find somewhere else to sleep tonight. I… need to rethink some things.”

Your husband stared at your back as you left, his chest aching in a way it never had before. Could this really be the end of your marriage? No, no of course not. You loved him, and he would do anything for you. There’s no way such a small issue could divide the two of you that easy… right?

Oh how wrong he was.

When he attempted to come home the next night, his clothes and personal items were packed up on the porch, and the locks were changed.

This wasn’t something he could just smooth over with a few kisses and a good fuck. You were genuinely upset, something he could barely comprehend.

Upset? Why, because he was being a bit of a brat? His view only changed when he was complaining to a friend through tears and a glass of wine.

“Well, what would you do if she did the same?”

The glass shattered in his hand, his pupils turning into slits. The image of you walking up to a man, cooing and attempting to seduce him right in front of your husband made his heart boil in a jealous rage.

So that’s how you felt…

“I’m an idiot…” he murmured, looking at your picture. When he married you, he swore off ever having sex with another person. You were his sole source of sustenance and love, his only reason to breathe and live.

If he lost you, what would he even do besides sob until his heart stopped?

If he wanted to keep his beloved, he’d have to win you back…

Fortunately, the incubus knew just what to do.

Part 2? And should I go the yandere route or normal route?

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NSFW TAGLIST: @avalordream @icommitwarcrimes @bazpire @im-eating-rn @anglingforlevels @kinshenewa @pasteldaze @yoongiigolden @peachesdabunny @murder-hobo @leiselotte @misswonderfrojustice @dij-ology @i8kaeya @lollboogurl @h3110-dar1in9 @keikokashi @aliceattheart @mssmil3y @namjoons-t1ddies @izarosf1833 @healanette @lem-hhn @spufflepuff @honey-crypt @karljra @zyettemoon1800 @exodiam @vexillum-moeru @imperfectlyperfectprincess1 @enchantedsylveon @mysticranger575 @readeryn68 @danielle143 @kittenlover614 @filthybunny420 @annavittoria-mm @makimamybelovedwife @blubearxy @omglovelylaila @toocollectionchaos-universe-blog @fruk-you-usuk-fans @wil10wthetree @hammerhead96-blog @slightlyusedfloormat @bubblez-blop @sunshineangel-reads @heroneki-neko @soapybabyboop @anonymouskiwi

[bunji-enthusiast]

Hey can you do a reader oneshot where the player ended up become heavily emaciated from enduring starvation for so long to collapsing in the cave where Doey found them and take them to the Safe Haven where they interact with the Toys( and getting some food to be fed )? Something dark yet ended up getting a good ending

You, the ex-employee, have spent days or perhaps weeks starving, a shell of your former self. Your body, once strong and capable, is now reduced to little more than skin and bones. The hunger gnaws at you from within, twisting your thoughts into a blur of desperation. The world around you feels distant, as though your senses are failing, and every step you take becomes more of a struggle. 

time seemed to pass so differently where the light reached nowhere, you left it awhile ago. falling into the cold and cadaverous crypts, you could truly feel the full force of the torment that went on for the experiments here.

"sonuva-" You curse, taking another ragged step. the shortness of your breath was not left unnoticed by you yourself, it felt as if you were a shot-down tail-spun plane. there was no love here, not for you. you shake your head, trying to vy for some unforgotten strength you didn't muster just yet.

however, it seemed that wasn't the case.

unfortunately.

Collapsing into the cold, damp embrace of a forgotten cave within the Playtime Co. facility, your body gives way to exhaustion. You lie there, barely conscious, drifting between the waking world and the comforting darkness of unconsciousness. The hunger, the cold, the pain—each one seems like an insurmountable force in itself, but you no longer have the strength to fight.

the human body could be and has been impressive, proven in many cases. able to take on pain like nothing else or just even react faster and quicker then the average species of planet earth.

though, your body was nothing short of that. it was just that, average as anything else. in fact, it was already impressive enough that you managed to muster the energy to continue going on after the sudden self-imposed train crash after you had incidentally freed poppy. something you began to regret doing.

back then, you had repeatedly questioned poppy. to which she had only said a few decent answers, pick and choose you suppose. some seemed to hit home deeply, leaving her to deflect those specific ones. however, it's not as if you had a choice in the matter anyway. having no where else to go but----forward.

forward.

how ironic.

even if you had dearly wished for the children of playtime, each and every victim to have justice for their strife. you just couldn't keep going, you were just a human. only a human, against all those wrapped in monster-skins and facades.

you let out a sigh, wondering what you have done in your life; or any past lives for that matter as you cast an agonizingly long glance despite the pain, at the cold and desolate corners and hallways. the lights that flicker, and the shadows that the monsters prowl from within. you just wished something, or someone had ended you already.

people lost lives to this damned facility, what's one more?

It is there, in the deepest shadows of your despair, that Doey finds you. The plump, clay-like creature, bright and colorful in contrast to the gloom, seems to appear from nowhere. His long, playful limbs extend towards you, lifting you carefully from the ground as if you're nothing more than a fragile doll. Despite his cheery appearance, there is a certain understanding in his movement—a deep empathy that shines through the usual cheerfulness. Doey knows the pain of being lost, of enduring torment. 

you let out a low groan as the strange toy had jostled you to a safe position within his arms, or something on his body, you couldn't tell.

"Why?" is all you ask your savior.

though he didn't respond---that was something you had often asked of anyone and everything, in the factory of Playtime, that was all you seemed to ask. Especially since that very question circulated with finally finding out the bigger bodies initiative had existed, you weren't a higher up, no way; so you had no knowledge of such a thing.

not up until now.

The faint hum of the factory’s empty halls echoed through the long-abandoned Playcare dome. Dust and neglect had taken hold of the once-vibrant space, but none of this phased you now. your hand clutched the tape you had found hidden deep in a forgotten cabinet. It wasn’t the regular assortment of old company VHS tapes. No, this one was different. Something about the way it was buried, shoved aside, felt off. 

you slipped it into the player, fingers trembling. The grainy images flickered to life on the screen, an old commercial featuring Poppy, the doll that haunted you in your nightmares. But as you watched, you realized that something was wrong. This wasn’t just a commercial. The footage had been tampered with, and a series of frantic scribbles beneath the screen flashed warnings—"The bigger bodies initiative... They've been watching... they're still here..."

The tape abruptly cut off, and you stood frozen, mind racing. The implications were horrifying. The factory had always been a place of mystery, but this? This was worse. This wasn’t just about the toys. They had known about them—about you. And what had happened to the others? The missing employees? They weren’t just gone. They were still here. The realization was a bitter pill lodged in your throat, one you couldn’t swallow.

you growled, low and guttural, as anger boiled in your veins. The truth was out. And they had been hiding it from you and everyone else at the time. The bigger bodies—what were they doing here? Why weren’t you told? your thoughts spiraled, the once-seemingly innocent world of Playcare now twisted by the weight of this new knowledge.

The factory—your former place of employment—had become a prison of shadows and manipulation, its walls now hiding dark secrets beneath every creaking floorboard. you couldn't shake the feeling that it had always been like this. The sinister undercurrent had always been there, but you had never been able to see it until now.

you could feel the fury building in your chest, breaths coming quicker and quicker as you paced back and forth in the empty hall. The VHS tape had given you more than answers—it had opened a door you weren't prepared for, but now you couldn’t just walk away from it. No, there was no turning back now. 

your mind raced with the consequences of this discovery. There had been whispers among the employees, hushed voices passing around rumors of experiments, of something far more sinister happening in the darkest corners of Playcare. But you never took them seriously. you thought they were just scared, or paranoid. 

But now… now you saw it all for what it really was.

you gripped the worn edges of the tape, squeezing it so hard your knuckles turned white. your body tensed, ready to take action. This wasn’t a place to get scared. No, this was the moment for revenge. The factory had betrayed them—you—and it was time to find out who was behind this horrific "bigger bodies initiative." Whoever they were, whatever they were planning, you were going to stop them.

you headed for the deepest part of the factory, the place where the truth always seemed to lurk, hidden beneath layers of deception. The bigger bodies—they would pay for what they had done. 

And you would make sure no one ever came back here again.

You don’t know how long you’ve been out of it, but when you open your eyes again, you're in a place far brighter, warmer. A safe haven. The walls are decorated with worn-out toys that had long sought refuge, old but somehow still exuding life. You feel a strange sense of comfort in this room, where light and color seem to welcome you rather than mock your exhaustion. Doey, ever kind and patient, places a small meal in front of you. It's simple, but it's enough. The warmth of food, the comforting presence of someone who cares, stirs something deep within you—a feeling you thought had long since withered away. 

"thank... you" you rasped, barely managing the words you so wished to say.

Doey nods, as if he was conflicted for a moment, but then returns your sentiment with a gentle smile; "don't worry, you just rest up. we'll talk later." He pauses for a moment, almost trying to think of something else to say. Maybe words of comfort.

but he doesn't, and instead says, "okay?"

you nod simply, leaving your mind to wonder about your allies poppy and kissy missy.

As you eat, the toys around you, though broken and tired, offer their own forms of solace. Some of them play quietly nearby, others rest, and a few approach to offer small gifts or gestures of comfort. Among them, Doey's eyes—those holes where his face should be—soften, as if trying to reassure you without words. You are no longer alone. 

For the first time in what feels like forever, the weight of starvation, fear, and loss lifts. You don’t know what the future holds, but in this moment, you are safe. The darkness that once seemed suffocating begins to lift, and you realize, for the first time in a long while, that maybe—just maybe—there is still hope. The twisted factory and its horrors are far from over, but in this small corner of the world, you have found a sliver of peace.

Doey, ever the protector, watches over you as you rest, and though the path ahead may be fraught with danger and uncertainty, you are no longer alone. You have found the strength to carry on, even if just for another day. And in that, there is hope.

[truerhearts]

Wait for me.

🗡 Astarion x female!reader.

🗡 3.5k words., 2nd person pov

🗡 tw: violence and lotsss of blood !

🗡 summary: Astarion and Tav (reader) face a brutal, overwhelming battle that pushes them to their limits. Tav gets badly injured and Astarion brings her to safety, after begging and pleading for him not to leave her, and Astarion begging and pleading for her to stay where she is, he hands her his crossbow and heads off to finish off their assailants. 🗡 masterlist | ao3

The ruined cathedral had long since been abandoned—forgotten by the gods and swallowed by ivy, the bones of it left to rot beneath the quiet weight of dusk. You sat in what appeared to be an altar room in the depths of the crypt (most likely used for cultish activities, given the strange inscriptions and dried blood on the walls) feet braced against crumbled stone, back pressed to a broken altar. A starved little candle burned beside you, its light too small to fill the vast, hollow dark. Your crossbow lay across your knees, loaded. Waiting.

You could still feel the press of his fingers when he handed it to you, his crossbow.

“You shoot at anyone who comes through that door who isn’t me.”

He’d said it like a vow. Like a line drawn in blood. His eyes didn’t flinch when he spoke it.

There’d been word of hunters in the next valley. Not bandits, not cultists—the other kind. The kind that watched from the shadows, learned your habits, waited until the light was gone and your guard was down. They weren’t hunting just any vampire. They were after Astarion.

He’d always known. Always shrugged it off with that infuriating, cheeky smirk, voice dripping with mock charm: “Everyone wants a taste of me. Can you blame them?”

But now, the joke had run dry. The hunters were here, and the danger eminent. The gravity of the situation weighed on him far heavier than any jest could mask.

Whether they’d been sent by Cazador or were in it for gold, it didn’t matter. They were trained, they were many, and they were close.

He hadn’t wanted to bring you, the others begged you not to go with him, but you’d insisted.

You should have listened.

They found you, in the end. The attack came swift and brutal. Though you’d both been bracing for it, it still caught you off guard. Sparks flew, arrows whistled through the air, fire cracked, and chaos raged across the nave. Stone chunks rained down from the ceiling, turning the floor into a treacherous obstacle. The stained-glass windows (whatever was left of them from neglect) shattered completely, their colors lost in shards scattered across the floor. Another piece of the chapel’s soul torn away.

In the midst of it all, a hex slammed into you, sending you crashing to the floor. Your head struck hard against the cold stone, the world spinning and your skull pounding. Gripping your staff, you forced yourself to your feet, desperate to fight back. You willed a fireball, but only a weak, flickering spark sputtered from your fingers, barely enough to light the darkness. The magic that once flowed strong now felt fragile, like it might vanish the moment you needed it most.

You clawed at the air, desperate to summon even a little thread of magic, but only weak sparks sputtered from your fingers—tiny sparkles that fell like dust, vanishing before they even reached the floor. Like matches struck again and again, flaring briefly before dying out. Panic clenched your chest as you pushed harder, reckless and unfocused, your desperation blinding you to everything around you.

Before you knew it, Astarion was at your side. Without waiting for a word or glance, he swept you up over his shoulder and carried you through the twisting, narrow corridors of the cathedral.

He didn’t stop until he reached the crypt below.

He told you to stay behind—to remain in the ritualistic altar room this while he flushed them out. You could see it in his posture, the strain in his jaw, things were dire. He was already coated in so much blood.

You reached for him on instinct, fingers curling around his arm in protest, trying to pull him back.

He spun, pressing you hard against the altar, his breath ragged, his voice low and trembling with fury. “You hit your head—you’re bleeding, your magic’s not working, and you just stood there?” His hands trembled where they gripped your arms. “What the hell were you thinking?”

“I was trying to cast Fireball,” you said, the words barely leaving your mouth before a wave of pain rolled through you.

It was only now, in this narrow sliver of stillness, that your body caught up with what it had endured. The heat of the fight had masked it, but now your skull throbbed with every heartbeat. You winced and reached back with trembling fingers, feeling through your hair until you found the tender spot. When your hand came away, it was slick with your blood.

His eyes darted to your fingers. You saw it in him then—a flash of panic, too fast for him to hide.

“Gods—” he hissed through clenched teeth, and then his voice dropped into something hoarse and gutted. “You almost got yourself killed.”

His fingers curled tighter around your arms. “I can’t lose you,” he breathed. “Not like this. Stay behind this door. You shoot anything that moves. That is all I’m asking. Please—just do it.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but he stopped you, raising his voice “Do it! Do it for me, please.”

It wasn’t about fear. It was about you. About keeping you out of it.

He turned toward the door—toward the dark beyond it—without another word.

You couldn’t stand to see him go. A fracture began, which cracked further with every step he took closer to that damn door.

“Wait!” you cried, voice cracking under the weight of it, scrambling after him on unsteady legs.

You barely made it two steps before you fell—knees hitting the stone hard, palms skidding raw. The crossbow clattered from your hands. The sting was nothing next to the wave of desperation rising in your throat and how quickly the tears flooded your eyes.

“Astarion—please—” you choked out between sobs.

He stopped.

Spun around.

“No!” he roared, the sound tearing out of him like a beast forced into language. It wasn’t just fury—it was terror, panic, heartbreak all wrapped in one shattering note. “You are staying right here!”

The words ripped through the air, each one thundered and trembling, so full of dread you could feel it pulse in the marrow of your bones. It wasn’t a command—it was a plea flayed raw.

He stormed back toward you, fell to his knees before you, and grabbed your shoulders again with shaking hands. Not to hurt. Not to hold you down. To anchor you. Like he thought you might slip away entirely if he didn’t.

His eyes were wide and burning—red-rimmed, rimmed with exhaustion and blood and fear.

“You stay here,” he said again, softer now but no less sharp, his voice breaking on every other word. “You wait until I come back. You don’t run. You don’t follow. I’m begging you—” He choked on the last word, the breath stuttering out of him. “please, please, just stay right fucking here.”

You couldn’t speak, couldn’t even breathe.

You were still on your knees, shaking in his grasp. The cold from the stone floor had nothing on the cold seeping into your chest.

He was holding you like he couldn’t afford to let go. Like he’d already buried you in his mind a hundred times and couldn’t stand to do it again.

You searched his face—his beautiful, battered face. There was blood dried along his jaw, fresh cuts across his lip, a bruise darkening near his temple. Strands of his silver hair clung to his forehead, damp with sweat and streaked with crimson, wild from the fight.

But worse than all of it was the look in his eyes.

You had never seen him like this. So undone. So exposed. Like all the elegance, all the wit, all the charm had been stripped away and left only this—a man kneeling in front of you, begging not to lose what little light he’d ever found.

Tears fell, hot and soundless, down your cheeks. “I can’t—” you whispered, barely forming the words. “I can’t let you go alone.”

He shushed you with a breath, forehead pressing to yours. His grip on your shoulders loosened just enough to become an embrace, his trembling arms circling you like he was trying to memorize the shape of you.

“Please,” he whispered again, this time so quietly it could’ve shattered glass. “Please.”

You saw it—a single tear cutting through the grime and dried blood on his cheek. It slipped down in silence, unnoticed by him, but not by you.

And then—his voice, low and wrecked and barely holding together: “If anything happens to you, I won’t survive.”

That was the truth. Not a flourish. Not a dramatic line. Just the raw, bleeding fact of it. You saw it in his face. In the way he held you like a man already grieving. He leaned back just enough to see you again, thumbs brushing the corners of your eyes, messily wiping away tears he couldn’t stop from falling. But then, your brow twitched, and your breath hitched. The words knocked something loose in you. “Well what about me?” you snapped, louder than you meant to. Your voice cracked, but you didn’t care. “I just have to sit here? Wait? Hope you come back? But what if you don’t? What if you never do? What the hells am I supposed to do then?”

The tears came hard and fast now, hot and overwhelming. “At least we could both go out together—”

“Stop. Stop!”

His voice cracked like a whip. He gritted his teeth, eyes squeezed shut like he was trying to hold something in.

“You’re making this harder,” he rasped. His eyes snapped open, burning. “Gods, you’re making this so much harder.” He swallowed hard, jaw trembling. “I need to try to get you out of here. Because one of us making it out is better than neither. I have to try. I have to.”

He swallowed hard, mustering the strength he needed. “You trust me, don’t you?”

Moments passed, he held his breath, then you finally nodded. It was subtle, you didn’t want to do it, but you had to let him go.

“Then let me do this. Just this. For you.”

He kissed your forehead. Soft, breathless, like a goodbye he refused to say aloud.

Then he stood, staggering once, one hand dragging against the stone for balance. He didn’t look back when he opened the door again. He couldn’t. He wasn’t strong enough.

You didn’t call after him.

You just sat there, knees burning, crossbow limp beside you, and listened to the heavy thud of the door as it shut behind him.

And then—only silence.

Only your heartbeat in your painfully throbbing head.

Only the weight of his absence stretching out into the dark.

You’d imagined waiting would be the hard part.

It isn’t.

The hard part is not knowing.

A candle lay toppled over beside you. You turned it upright and sparked it with what little magic you had left.

You grip your crossbow right, finger resting firmly on the trigger. You close your eyes for a moment, and he’s already there behind your lids: his blood-wet grin, the satin curl of his voice, the way he touches you like he’s never known softness until now. That kiss by the dying fire. His mouth warm. Greedy. Reverent. The way he’d pulled away like he didn’t deserve it.

“You trusted me.” He’d whispered that night like it hurt him.

You did. You do.

So, you keep the crossbow ready, like he asked. You watch the door, wait, and stay put, like he asked.

You wait.

⸻

Time passes. How much time, you’re not sure. You’re on your second candle now, about halfway burned. When the first one started to gutter, you took the next one from the altar and carefully brought it to the dying light, making sure the flame didn’t go out. It was eerily quiet; it had been for ages.

Then, the sound comes softly—so soft you almost convince yourself it’s imagined.

A chill runs down your spine when you hear the careful pacing of footsteps drawing nearer, slowly but still coming.

The door opened slowly, the creak of the rusted metal hinges piercing through the silence of the altar room.

Your pulse slams into your throat as you raise the crossbow, hands trembling, it’s mechanisms clicking with every twitch you radiate. Breath caught in your lungs like it, too, has been hunted. Your finger hovers near the trigger. You’re already bracing for the worst.

A footstep inside.

And there he is.

Astarion.

You don’t lower the weapon. Not at first. It takes a full second—two, maybe more—before your body can even register relief. Because what stands there barely looks like him.

He’s drenched in blood.

Soaked through. His boots leave red-black prints across the stone floor, the leather of his armor slashed and torn. One padded sleeve is nearly gone, hanging in ragged strips from his shoulder, exposing a gash that splits the muscle down his upper arm like a raw seam. His jaw is tight, teeth clenched, a dark bruise blooming across one cheek where the skin has split clean through.

His daggers are still drawn, slick with dark, drying blood, ready in case anyone had made it to you.

His eyes glow a sharp ruby red, piercing through the darkness. Not with fury. Not exactly. With something worse. Something wretched and hollow and shaken. There’s violence in him still, but not the kind that reaches outward. This rage turns in on itself, coiling around his bones like a curse.

He doesn’t speak. He just stands there in the doorway, blood drying in streaks and spatters on his skin. His chest rises and falls in slow, deliberate rhythms, each breath heavy and ragged.

You lower the crossbow. Your arms feel numb.

A moment passes.

And then he’s moving, sheathing his daggers once he realizes that it’s all over, and you’re safe.

Not with urgency. Not with grace. He just walks—slow and heavy, every step laboured.

When he finally reaches you, he drops straight to his knees like the strings had been cut. The sound of it echoes. His body folds in on itself, shoulders hunched, blood still dripping from his fingers.

“I said I’d come back,” he breathes.

The voice that leaves him is not the one you know. It’s ruined and hoarse, cracking at the edges, like it’s been dragged across glass. You can hardly hear it.

Your breath catches. You shake as you look at him—really look at him.

He is a ruin of himself.

There’s a split down his bottom lip—wider now than before, stretched open by the way he’d been snarling, baring his teeth like an animal while he tore through them. A welt swells above one brow, angry and red. His hands are scraped and raw, knuckles split, nails caked with grime and something darker.

His eyes, gods his eyes, hollow, vacant, and exhausted beyond words.

His body trembles beneath the weight of whatever he’s endured—whatever he’s done—to make it back to you.

You set the crossbow aside and reach for him.

He doesn’t hesitate. He leans into you like a drowning man claws for air. His forehead presses against your stomach, blood and sweat soaking through your clothes. His arms slide around your waist and hold fast—desperate, unrelenting. Like he could crawl inside your skin and hide from everything. His breath hits your abdomen in short, unsteady bursts.

You thread your fingers into his hair. It’s sticky and damp, matted to his scalp in places, warm from blood and heat. Your other hand cups the back of his neck, cradling him gently.

The strength goes out of him all at once.

“What happened?” you whisper.

He doesn’t answer right away, he just holds you tighter.

The silence stretches. You can feel his pulse hammering beneath his jaw. His body trembles with it.

“They kept coming,” he murmurs. His voice is low. Muffled. Like it hurts to say the words. “I thought I’d finished them all. But more were waiting. Down the ridge, past the trees…”

You flinch.

He senses it and his grip on you tightens. “I took care of it,” he says quickly. “All of them. It’s done now. We’re safe. You’re safe.”

He breathes that last part like a prayer. Or a plea. But you can hear the break in his voice. The guilt threading through it. He’s shaking again, worse now.

You pull him closer.

He buries his face in you.

“They almost got down here.” he says. “I didn’t realize at first, I thought I was too late.” He chokes on the words. “I thought I’d find you dead.”

A pause.

You hold him tighter.

“I tore them apart,” he says.

Soft. Barely more than air.

“I didn’t even think. I just… I ripped them. I didn’t know I could. Not like that.”

His voice sounds… small. Frightened of himself.

And for a split second, you let your mind go there. Let it conjure the image: his daggers flashing red, bone splitting beneath his grip, that raw, unthinking violence in his eyes. Blood coating the walls. The floor. His hands… Maybe even his teeth.

You stop yourself.

You swallow the picture before it finishes forming, pushing it down where it can’t reach you. Your curiosity—foolish, unguarded—had gotten the better of you. But you don’t want to know.

Not really. Not like this.

So you hold him instead.

You press your lips to his temple. He lets out a shuddering breath at the contact, some invisible thread inside him fraying loose.

“You came back,” you whisper. “That’s all that matters.”

His body curls tighter. His hands fist in your tunic like he’s afraid you’ll pull away. “I didn’t know if I’d make it,” he admits. “I left you with nothing but a crossbow and an old wooden door.”

“You left me with silence,” you murmur. “And I didn’t know what to do with it.”

Your voice is barely a breath, trembling at the edges. “I thought you were going to die. I thought I’d never see you again. And I didn’t know how to feel—I was angry, terrified, praying to gods I don’t even believe in…”

Your throat tightens. You swallow hard against the sting rising behind your eyes.

“I didn’t know if you were ever going to come back through that door,” you whisper.

His breath stutters, catches—and then the tremble overtakes him. His whole body curls inward, as if the weight of the moment, the truth of it, has unraveled something vital inside him. Slowly, he lifts his head.

You see him.

Not the vampire. Not the monster with red-stained teeth or the graceful predator shaped by centuries of survival.

Just the man. Broken and bare. Wide-eyed. Real in a way he’s never allowed himself to be.

“You make me feel…” His voice is raw, hushed like a confession whispered in the dark. His throat works around the words, but they don’t come easy. “Gods,” he breathes, “I don’t know what you make me feel. I’ve never… I’ve never had a word for it.”

Your fingers cradle his cheek, and he leans into it instinctively. Starved for touch. For safety. For you.

He presses a kiss to your wrist. Then to the soft bend of your elbow. Your shoulder.

Not demanding. Not hungry.

Grateful.

As if you’re the first thing he’s ever truly chosen for himself, and choice wasn’t ever something he was familiar with. As if your skin alone could cleanse him of what he's done, what he's endured.

“You trusted me,” he whispers, like he still doesn’t believe it. Like the words burn and soothe all at once. “You stayed.”

“I’ll always stay.”

His arms tighten around you, and for a moment, he just breathes. Against your ribs. Against your heart. As if syncing his rhythm to yours is the only way to hold himself together.

He shifts up and buries his face in your neck, lips brushing your skin as he exhales.

And you let him.

You hold him as if he might vanish otherwise, as if your arms alone could shield him from every sharp thing in the world. You kiss the top of his head, his temple, every bloodied inch you can reach. You anchor him in silence and warmth and the steady promise of your body.

Because now you know what he’s made of.

Not just moonlight and sharp teeth. Not just rage and ruin.

But ache.

Longing.

Hope.

And you will not let him go.

Not until the last candle gutters out.

Not until the final enemy falls.

Not until he believes—truly believes—that he is more than what his master made him.

And maybe… not even then. ---

🗡a/n wow you made it to the end! i hope you enjoyed it! the story idea came from this prompt list

🗡masterlist | ao3

[thewriteadviceforwriters]

🖤 10 Cool Dark Academia Writing Prompts for Your Next Obsession 🕯️📓

a.k.a. “what if your WIP smelled like old books and reeked of moral decay”

A top student is found dead in the library archives. No one remembers seeing them for weeks, except you, who has a stack of annotated letters written in their handwriting, all dated after they died.

A professor vanishes mid-lecture. Your friend swears the man is still in the room, just in a version of it that the rest of you can’t perceive. And they're starting to draw diagrams of the “other room” on the walls of your dorm.

The most exclusive club on campus only lets in ten members a year. You’re the eleventh who wasn’t invited, but somehow you’re still receiving the club’s nightly riddles. And they’re… personal.

You find a half-burned play manuscript inside a chapel crypt. The final act is missing. When you stage the play for your theatre class, everyone cast in it starts seeing things. Including you.

Your roommate is building a machine to prove time is a loop. It starts working. Every night at 3:41 AM, you wake up screaming the same phrase in a language you don’t speak.

A student writes a scathing essay on a forgotten philosopher’s work, and then disappears. Now the pages of your textbook are rewriting themselves with notes in the same vicious tone.

Someone in your friend group isn’t human. They told you this in passing, like it wasn’t a big deal. You’re starting to realize they meant it literally.

There’s a new elective no one remembers enrolling in. The syllabus reads like a ritual. You’re three weeks in before realizing: the class is teaching you how to forget.

You inherit a locked journal from your estranged uncle, a disgraced historian. Every page you unlock rewrites a piece of the past, and the people around you shift with it.

A girl who went missing last semester is back. She’s quiet, distant, never blinks, and claims to have solved death as a final exam.

🕯️ Which one are you stealing for your next WIP? Be honest.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Besotted 5

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, virginity loss, age gap, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: your new neighbour brings intrigue and a bit of danger.

Characters: ex-con!Bucky Barnes (silverfox)

Note: Friday at last and my house guest is away for a couple days.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

Bucky plants his feet as the bike comes to a stop. You look up at the duplex and your insides get all swirly. You're home and still giddy. You've made up your mind. It's now or never.

He shuts off the engine and waits for you to get off first. You hang onto his shoulder for balance as you hop down. He gets off without much effort and heaves a dark sigh. He hesitates and you do too.

"That was awesome, Bucky," you shimmy. 

"Mm," he drones and flinches, moving toward the saddle bag. He unbuckles it and takes out the cookies. "Don't forget these."

You take them reluctantly and he hauls out his bag of groceries. He wraps one arm around it and lets the flap fall open. He faces you as you clutch the box to your chest. Don't let him do it. He can't send you away now.

"Hey, you want... want to try some? I could make us some tea."

His eyes dart to the side then he looks down at the bag. He fidgets and shifts on his feet. He looks at you and his forehead lines. He deflates just a little as you watch him with rounded, hopeful eyes.

"Sure, I should get the yogurt in the fridge though so why don't you come in?" He relents.

You could fist pump and jump in glee. You don't. You're not that lame. You bounce and smile.

"Oh, yay," you grin, "so you got everything set up?"

"Hm, not much. Still got a few things to grab," he grits.

You walk up the steps beside him and stand aside, waiting for him to unlock the door. He keeps the screen door open with his elbow then pauses before he pushes open the inner one. He sniffs.

"Go on, girl," he waves inside.

Huh, what happened to doll?

You enter as if you've discovered some ancient crypt full of treasures meant for the after world. There's a couch and a coffee table, a floor lamp behind the former. The area rug is the only piece of decor to give it any warmth. You try not to be too obvious as you take account of the barren space.

"I might got some tea," he says as he gentle touches your back and slips by. You savour the tingle along your spine.

You take off your boots before you break the threshold of the front room. You tiptoe in as you hear him in the kitchen. He sighs as cupboards open and close.

"It doesn't have to be tea," you call to him. You near the table and examine the motorcycle magazine, a sheet of paper tucked under the cover.

"Good, all I got is beer," he says. 

"Mmm," you turn as he comes close with the bottles.

"Coasters," he says.

"Oh, uh, right," you set the box next to the magazine and take two of the cork coasters from the stack. You place them down and he swiftly clanks the bottles into place.

"I know it's not much but uh, get comfortable," he says.

You pluck up a bottle and sit on the couch. You taste the malty beer. It's not bad. He paces around and nears the window. You watch his back.

You lean forward to set down the bottle and tear the seal on the box. You flip the top and pick out two cookies. You get up and approach him. You stop beside him.

"Try one," you offer.

He exhales and accepts it with a thanks. You nibble and he crunches into his. It's a bit dry by sweet.

You're nervous. You've never been this close in your life. Now you have the prime opportunity. You're in his space. You finish the cookie and smack your lips.

"Dry," you chuckle, "need to wash it down."

"Me too," he says.

He follows you as you go to grab your beer. You drink and sit. He does the same, stiffly, as he takes his beer and swigs. Your eyes stick to him. You watch his throat and the way his chest stretches the fabric of his shirt. You set the beer back on the cork and sidle closer. You're fuzzy all over.

You put your hand on his knee. He flinches and lowers the bottle. He looks at your hand and reaches to set down the beer. His other hand covers yours and he peels it off.

"Look, doll," he squeezes and clears his throat, gently laying your hand in your own lap. "There's things you don't know about me. I think you better just finish and go."

"Bucky, I... it's okay. Whatever it is."

"I'm too old for ya," he puffs. "You're young. Don't do this."

His eyes bore into yours. You pout.

"I might be young but I can make my own choices. So why don't you tell me so I can?"

His cheek twitches, "girl--"

"Please. Don't I deserve to know?"

"I don't know what you're thinking, girl. Alright? Look at us. I'm... I gotta twice your age. And you're... you're too sweet for your own good."

"Tell me," you reach for him again, petting the denim on his thigh. "I won't go until you do. Or you can drag me out."

His eyes flicker and he looks at the window behind you. His jaw squares and he shakes his head. He slaps his hand over yours again but doesn't move it away.

"I'm a criminal. I just got out and I'm tryna rebuild, but I'm not changed. Alright? You understand me," he snarls. "I'm a bad man. I hurt people. Too late for me to change that."

You search his face, "but... you haven't hurt me. And you did your time."

"Girl, don't be foolish."

"No, Bucky, you told me and I don't care. I don't care what you are. I know that you feel this too," you move closer. "Don't you?"

He turns his head and stares at the wall. You squeeze his thigh and get up on your knees. You trail your touch up to his belt and he grunts, stopping you with his thick fingers around your wrist.

"Bucky, please," you beg. "It's just us. Nothing else."

"Girl--" he pleads.

"You're not too old, you're not too bad," you slip free of his grasp and tickle up his shirt, "you're perfect for me, baby."

You bring your hand to his jaw and flutter your fingers along his beard. He shudders and you raise yourself on your knees. You lean in and press your lips to his. He grabs your upper arm but doesn't push you away. He growls as you open your mouth and slide your tongue along his lips.

His hand slides away from your arm and to your back, crawling to the back of your neck. You brace his shoulder and swing your leg across him, straddling his lap as you deepen the kiss. He groans as you hook an arm around his neck and snare him. You rock him slightly as you breathe into him, tilting your pelvis against him. 

He grips your hip with his other hand and parts from your mouth. His eyes are cloudy as he gazes up at you. The tension is his cheek pulses.

"Doll," he shakes his head, "one last chance..."

"I got condoms," you say as you sit back and reach to your cross body bag, still resting against your side.

He shivers and slackens against the couch. "You're too much."

"I know what I want," you assure him.

He stares at you and his lashes flick, He grabs the strap of your cross body bag and unhooks it from around you. He puts it on the cushion and gulps. He frames your face with his hands, his thumbs rubbing your cheekbones. He sighs. 

You reach up to curl your fingers under the straps of your tanks top and drag them down your arms. You feel him beneath you. He's hard already. You're soaking through your panties, not that there's much to them.

You push down the sheath of your top to your waist. He inhales sharply and you reach back, your chest bulging as you tug at the band of your bra. You unhook it and quickly drop it down to your wrists. Your tits pop free and jiggle as you toss your bra.

He blinks at your chest. He just sits there, paralysed. You giggle and grab his hands, putting them on your tits, making him squeeze them. He purrs and rolls his hips.

"Doll, you're... you're..." He gropes you then slips his hands down to lift your tits. He leans forward and nuzzles your flesh, pushing your chest around his face as he snarls. You got him. There's no going back.

You arch your back and cling to his head, urging him on. He nips and teethes at you, tracing your nipple with his thumb before popping it between his lips. He hums and swirls his tongue around the hard bud. It must have been a while for him, having been in jail. That sends another thrill through you.

You twine your fingers into his hair and grazes his scalp with your nails. He snarls as he continues to bounce your tits, squeezing and pawing. You never cared much for the extra weight, but now that he's drowning in them, you can't complain.

You lip your hand down between your bodies and feel along the front of his jeans. He groans and wriggles against your touch. He's rock-hard. He hisses as he pulls away and drops back against the couch heavily.

"Doll," he tenses up.

You giggle and tug at the bottom of his shirt. You push it up his stomach and over his broad chest. You mess his hair as you swoop it past his head and drop it over the back of the couch.

Now it's your turn. You flatten your hands across his pecs and moan. He growls and you drag your nails lightly down his skin, the soft hair contrasting against hard muscle. His stomach is cushier but not in a bad way.

"Baby, you got me struggling," he groans and rubs your thighs, his pelvis tilting desperately.

"Me too," you breathe.

You linger at the top of his jeans then back off of him carefully. His eyes widen. You see fear in him. You grin and turn to wiggle your ass as him. You hook your fingers inside your leggings and bend as you push them down. Your thong rides up between your cheeks. He hums as the couch springs whine beneath him.

You shiver as your nerves flurry in your chest. This is it. So close. You're throbbing. You can see the slickness in your leggings as you step out of them.

"How... why do you want me, doll? You're... you're gorgeous," he rasps.

You stand and face him again. You shake your chest at him and he brings his fist up to bite his knuckle. You feel powerful.

You slink closer to him and touch the front of your bejeweled thong, a little heart on black. "Can I keep these on?"

"Yes," he croaks and clears his throat, "yes, doll."

You grin and grab your bag. You unzip the front pocket and slide free the strip of condoms. It unfurls and you laugh. "Oops... think we'll need them all?"

He startles you as he swipes up the end and tears one off, "we'll see."

You drop the rest beside your bag and blink at him. You sense something different. He tears open his pants and raises himself off the cushion as he shoves the denim down. His dick bobs above the elastic of his briefs, the head swollen and weeping. You get even wetter as you see the veins bulging under the skin.

He rips the wrapper with his teeth. He trembles as he presses the rubber to his tip and you near him, wavering as you weigh the moment. This is your last day a virgin. You take a silent breath and lean forward to grab his shoulders. He quakes and moans as he slides the condom down his length.

You bring yourself over his lap, hovering above him as he grips himself. He frames your hip and hisses, "doll, please, please, I need you on me. I need--"

You reach down and wrap your fingers above his. He lets go and gasps. You angle his tip along your cunt and push your panties aside. You stare down at him. Your eyes cling to his and you bite your lip.

You dip down carefully. As you open around him, you grunt. You sink your nails into his trap and your eyes speckle with tears. Oh, it hurts more than you expect.

He taps your hip, "stop," he snarls.

You bat your lashes but obey, "I can take it--"

"Come on," he feels along your side. He loops his arm around you and in an instant, he has your back to the cushion. He slips out of you. 

He fishes out your bag from beneath you and sweeps it onto the floor. He knees on the other end of the couch and urges you further up. You drag yourself until your head is against the armrest. 

He bends between your knees and kneads your thighs, his eyes on your cunt. He licks his lips before he plunges in. You yipe in surprise as he laps at you, his beard tickling your lips as he pushes your legs wider.

He flicks his tongue around and across your clit. You spasm and clasp onto his hair as the sensations stir within like flames. Your thighs clench and your spine stiffen. You pout and gulp loudly as he toys with you, suckling and swiping as you squirm.

He growls into you and traces a finger along your ass up to your entrance. He spreads the wetness there before he delves inside. He pushes his finger in bit by bit then draws it back out. He adds another and urges inside even deeper.

His tongue teases you to the edge as he pushes in and out of your cunt. He hums and drinks you up, spreading his tongue as wide as he can to taste all over you. He seals his lips once more around your clit and the pressure pinpoints, pulsing faster and faster until your muscles release.

There's a sudden surge and a hot flow coursing from you, dripping down his fingers. You convulse and whimper as you wash away with your orgasm.

He kisses your cunt before he sits up. You watch him, bleary-eyed, and he wipes the glisten from his beard with a hum. He inhales so his chest puffs out and he cracks his neck.

"If we're gonna do this, we're gonna do it right," he growls.

[memser]

mcr blogger dash in 2025

🪳 buggerard

still so much debate about sexualizing gerards moans in Self-Flagellant but no ones talking about why in that muffled intro mikey is asked to leave the studio??

#im telling you something happened #frerard solos dni

���️ coquettegee Follow

yes in the new doc lindsey had any pronouns on her intro card but so did gerard. i think they just used his as a template and its some sort of error

🔁 singleangelicnote

all your posts are still using he/him for gerard and this sounds terribly gendercrit get help op

🔁 coquettegee

i see him as more of a femboy type and i have since dd, don't try to police me

🔁 kondemnedkadaver

???

#CAN WE KILL THIS GUY

🐕 omgee

ROSY HAS A SISTER!!!!!!!!

#WORLD PEACE

🎙️amptits

"november 22nd of 2024 right before the teaser dropped" uh oh guys

Anonymous asked

when will you people address the themes of necrophilia in the limited vinyl comic

🪨 fyeahfoundationsofdecay

sorry i didnt have 200 dollars and i dont care

#the larger mcr conscious has forgotten he jerked it to horror movies

🌄 infectionpiece

a bralette and the comfort flannel

#i hauve

🧘 clergy-xxx

I have some. bad news. Frank did not

yt.be/78hskUi83Hn2nb67mdns00

🤹‍♀️ cryptclown

10 MINUTE AD WALL FOR THAT NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO WHAT I THOUGHT PEOPLE WERE JUST JOKING. OR INSANE

✴️ grifties Follow

selling ltd edition frank iero binder!! it still has the skeleton decals and it still glows in most low light. from the first run with that chemical they had to recall so probably don't wear it without a shirt on top or if you don't have insurance lol. 30 bucks just dm me.

🧘crypt-xxx

i respect the hustle BUT WE HAVE STOP RESELLING THE BIOHAZARD MERCH

🦕 toro-saurus

October 25th 2022

RAY😍😍😍😍 RAY TORO🤗🤗🤗🤯🤯🤯🤯RAAYYYYYY

🔁 toro-saurus

omg my old post i was so correct

#meeee when the new single dropped #how does he find the time truly

🤺 singleangelicnote

Guys since why does that new pope follow Gerard's private account on Globeus theres only like 80 people on there she HAS to know

#THE GAY POPE???

🪳 buggerard

dude i lost my implant magnet 🥲 im using my old touchscreen to post on here

#gawd im having swarm tour livestream flashbacks

🧘 clergy-xxx

I actually went to a few shows during danger days and mikey would often just turn around during the destroya incidents. theres video on youtube if you can get past the ad walls

🤹‍♀️ cryptclown

oh okay super awesome!!! so mikey leaving during antics isnt new. did frank leave too?

🪨 fyeahfoundationsofdecay

does anyone remember when the heavn photos came out. i had a job then and i saw them literally a year later

🔁 buggerard

november 22nd of 2024 right before the teaser dropped

#wild night to be online tbh

🌬️ mesmer

i got concussed what happened sunday

🔁 mesmer

THEY DID WHAT

[emryslore]

Sterek Fic Recs

Tag: Protective!Derek

If you'd like to request a list of recs from me just shoot me an ask and ill get back to you asap!!

Now lets get right into this!! Please Enjoy!

The Mummy (M) 28K (12/?) by killmesoftly_s

Inspired by my all time favorite movie, The Mummy (1999) When Scott, -Stiles’ step brother and best friend-brings him a key found within a Pharohs crypt depicting the curse of the infamous city; Hamunaptra, a trip is set. It’s in Cairo that the rugged and frustratingly handsome Derek Hale, who is the only living man to know how to find the city of the dead, promises to take him. Death is only the beginning and Stiles is ready for his adventure, stupid hunters and curses be damned. Rated mature for one detailed sex scene.

Autumn comes when you're not yet done (NR) 5.6K (1/1) by Lord_potato

The wolf (Canis lupus) is a mammal of the canine family. Biologically speaking, it is the same species as the domestic dog. The wolf is the largest canine living in the wild. Out of all the northern predators, the wolf is the most social species that prefers to live in packs formed by family units. extract: Werewolves. Fucking werewolves. His son had been hanging out with werewolves and had been fighting werewolves and had been lying about it all to him for longer than he realised. or the fic where Noah Stilinski finds out about werewolves and slowly gets used to being part of the pack.

Matryoshka(s) (E) 23K (5/5) by Gege_from_the_void_89

Stiles becomes known as Koschei when his father gets killed by a woman going by the nickname of Babayaga, and when the boy starts to plan how to avenge his father, the Russian mafia gets brought in sooner than later, till all his plan comes down to one single person he has to charm: Derek Hale. Will Stiles be able to get revenge for his father? Will he be able to handle something that wasn’t part of the plan?

Twilight (E) 67K (2/2) by Hedwig221b

Derek. Stiles thought about him the most. Something told him that it wasn’t the last time, far from it. He thought about his softness and his open desire to kill. Stiles’ hands remembered the heat of his hands. His neck longed to feel the coating warmth of Derek’s breath. His lips burned from the kiss that never happened. Everything was so fucking complicated. Except one thing. It was the only clear thought in his head. The one that made his stomach clench from fear, his heart stutter from hope, and his lips stretch in a smile. He was unconditionally and irrevocably in love with Derek.

We Ain’t Angry At You, Love. You’re The Greatest Thing We’ve Lost. (NR) 33K (9/12) by Christell_Nobody

Since Void, so much has happened. His dad is still just as neglectful, and now all his friends just stopped all contact. Derek and Peter left. If it wasn’t for Melissa and Jordan he’d be drowning and probably dead. After his 16th birthday he makes a decision, Melissa and Jordan help him and are supportive, a bit heartbroken but understanding. Noah doesn’t even care what he’s signing. Doesn’t care he signed his parental rights away, but was he ever a parent? With promises to keep contact, he is off. “So pack up your car, put a hand on your heart.”

Yes To Heaven (E) 85K (2/2) by Hedwig221b

Stiles ruined him. The damage was irreparable. He didn’t want the food that wasn’t made by Stiles or shared with him; the water tasted stale; the clothes were asphyxiating and scratchy; the air was wrong, wrong without Stiles’ scent in it. Fuck, what was wrong with him? How could that pretty little thing change him so much? He had an iron grip on his control before, being in tandem with his instincts, but within weeks, all of it was gone. As soon as he thought of Stiles, though, of his scent, his moans, and the little wrinkle on his forehead as he orgasmed, his mind settled. What was life before Stiles? Everything was somewhere far, far away, forgotten, bleak, and meaningless. Derek thought he knew what light was as he looked at the microscopic dots of the stars above. Then Stiles came into his life and showed him the sun.

[revelboo]

Bro, you can't have me crying over tender-hearted spider-men like this😢

He just wants a friend

Disappear Pt 4

Tarantulas x Reader

• Clawed servos flexing, he works on tweaking the avatar and glances at where you’re stretched out on the scavenged mattress in your nest of blankets. Remembering the feel of your hand in his. Well, his avatar’s. You’re still skittish of his actual form. Watches you draw your legs up against your body, huddling deeper into your blankets. Cold? Mandibles shifting he sets the projector aside and lifts up onto his extra limbs, moving closer and easing down to crouch over you as you shiver in your sleep to tug your blankets more closely around you, a servo brushing you cheek and your skin is chilled.

• Startling as something thumps down near your head, you don’t move as his creepy spider limbs cage you while he pokes at whatever the thing is. And it begins to softly hum and- it’s a heater. He’d realized you were cold and made you a heater to keep you warm. Watching him stalk away from you to return to his work, you roll over to watch him. “Hey, Tarantulas?” Head turning and mandibles shifting, you make yourself look him in the optics. He still creeps you out, but you’re getting used to him. Suspect he’s really lonely. “Thank you.” You’ve never seen anyone visit him, no one ever contacts him. It occurs to you that you’re all he really has. And you’re scared of him and he knows it.

• Servos tapping on his work table, he vents. “If you freeze, who’s going to teach me to not be, what were your words? Serial killer looking?” He asks watching you smile and lay back down. And he’s half tempted to move closer. To try and coax a conversation from you, but he lets you be and returns to his work. You’re behaving only because you fear him, you don’t like him. You’re not friends.

• Stretching, you listen to the silence and try to gauge what time it is. And sitting up, you freeze. Because you’re free. Normally he webs you down before he goes to lay down to keep you from escaping. He’d forgotten. Pushing off the blankets, you stand up and go up on tiptoes to try and see where he’s sprawled on his front on his berth, a couple of spider legs and an arm hanging over the edge. Recharging. Heart racing, you move across the room. Hesitating at the open door of the crypt, your breath catches. All you have to do is go. Walk until you’re far enough away he won’t hear you when you bolt.

• Venting as he comes online, mandibles flexing, his head lifts and his spark constricts when he automatically looks for you on your little mattress. And realizes he’d forgotten to secure you before recharge. Primus, how much of a head start do you have? Is Ghost already on its way? Lunging upright with a snarl, he hears a little gasp and he freezes. Because you’re right there bent over the little cooler of food he’s been scavenging for you. “I swear you’re trying to give me a heart attack,” you mutter, turning your attention back to finding something to eat. You’d had the opportunity to run and you’d stayed with him? Hadn’t betrayed or abandoned him. Has anyone ever chosen him before?

• Stiffening as he stalks your way, his spidery legs come down on either side of you and your breath catches. Watch his head tip to make your skin crawl and you wonder why he has to be so damn unsettling all the time. A clawed hand lands near your hip as he leans down into your space to make every instinct scream to run. And he’s just staring, his mandibles slowly shifting. “After you eat your food, show me how to move correctly again,” he says, lifting up on his extra legs and walking away to leave you bewildered. Creepy, damn spider dude.

Previous

Next

[losttrailsmaps]

Shrouded in mist and overgrown with twisted vines, this ancient graveyard lies forgotten beneath the gnarled roots of time, its tombstones whispering tales of the past. Beneath the earth, a secret crypt waits in silent darkness, its cold stone halls guarded by restless spirits and long-forgotten wards.

Cheers everyone! Welcome to the Graveyard Map Pack. It features 10 total graveyard maps, including tombstones, crypts, mausoleums, and much more.

Patrons get access to gridded/ungridded and watermark-free maps!

You can view the complete map pack here.

[dragonpropaganda]

The Architecture of Rain World: Layers of History

A major theme in Rain World's world design that often goes overlooked is the theme of, as James Primate, the level designer, composer and writer calls it, "Layers of History." This is about how the places in the game feel lived-in, and as though they have been built over each other. Here's what he said on the matter as far back as 2014!

The best example of this is Subterranean, the final area of the base game and a climax of the theme. Subterranean is pretty cleanly slpit vertically, there's the modern subway built over the ancient ruins, which are themselves built over the primordial ruins of the depths. Piercing through these layers is Filtration System, a high tech intrusion that cuts through the ground and visibly drills through the ceiling of the depths.

Two Sprouts, Twelve Brackets, the friendly local ghost, tells the player of the "bones of forgotten civilisations, heaped like so many sticks," highlighting this theme of layering as one of the first impressions the player gets of Subterranean. Barely minutes later, the player enters the room SB_H02, where the modern train lines crumble away into a cavern filled with older ruins, which themselves are invaded by the head machines seen prior in outskirts and farm arrays, some of which appear to have been installed destructively into the ruins, some breaking through floors.

These layers flow into each other, highlighting each other's decrepit state.

The filtration system, most likely the latest "layer," is always set apart from the spaces around it. At its top, the train tunnels give way to a vast chasm, where filtration system stands as a tower over the trains, while at the bottom in depths, it penetrates the ceiling of the temple, a destructive presence. (it's also a parallel to the way the leg does something similar in memory crypts, subterranean is full of callbacks like that!)

Filtration system is an interesting kind of transition, in that it is much later and more advanced than both of the areas it cuts between. This is a really interesting choice from James! It would be more "natural" to transition smoothly from the caves of upper subterranean to the depths, but by putting filtration system in between, the two are clearly demarcated as separate. The difference in era becomes palpable, the player has truly found something different and strange.

Depths itself is, obviously, the oldest layer not only of subterranean but of the game itself. The architecture of Depths has little to do with the rest of the game around it, it's a clear sign of the forgotten civilisations that our friend Two Sprouts, Twelve Brackets showed us, there's not actually that much to say about it itself, it's mostly about how it interacts with the other layers of subterranean.

That said, Subterranean is far from the only case of the theme of layers of history. It's present as soon as the player starts the game!

The very first room of the game, SU_C04, is seemingly a cave. It is below the surface, the shapes of it are distinctly amorphous rather than geometric. (well. kind of, it doesn't do a very good job of hiding the tile grid with its 45 degree angles.)

But let's take a closer look, shall we?

See that ground? it's made of bricks. The entire cave area of outskirts is characterised by this, the "chaotic stone" masonry asset is mixed with brickwork, unlike the surface ruins which are mostly stone. This, seemingly, is an inversion of common sense! The caves are bricks and the buildings are stone. This is not, however, a strange and unique aspect but a recurring motif.

This occurs enough in the game for it to be clearly intentional, but why would materials such as bricks be used in otherwise natural looking terrain?

The answer lies in the "Layers of History" theme. This is in fact, something that happens in real life, and it's called a tell

To be specific, a tell is a kind of mound formed by settlements building over the ruins of previous iterations of themselves. Centuries of rubble and detritus form until a hill grows from the city. Cities such as Troy and Jericho are famous examples. The connections to the layers of history theme are pretty clear here, I think. Cities growing, then dying, then becoming the bedrock of the next city. The ground, then, is made of bricks, because the ground is the rubble of past buildings. The bones of forgotten civilisations, heaped like so many sticks!

[dungeonmapster]

patreon.com/dungeonmapster

Cultist's Lair and Tomb of the Secret Boss, a couple throwback dungeon maps!

This crypt was once a place of rest for the dead, but in the hundreds of years since its abandonment, collapse and disrepair have obscured its deeper purpose, and the true duty of the order once charged with its keeping. Now, it is fertile ground for aspiring cultists, necromancers, graverobbers, and bandits, but its greatest bounty and most dangerous secrets have yet to be discovered. 

The stairs so long concealed in the lair above lead down, deep into the earth. The stale air and utter silence of the place are disturbed only by the torches burning on either side, lighting your way to a large stone door. A small socket lies waiting for its key, the golden staff hidden away in the dilapidated passage above. An instrument of the last warden of this pale mausoleum, and the terrible power imprisoned within, both long forgotten. However one manages to breach the door, silent stone sentries stand guard over six sarcophagi. The seventh, and most terrible, depicts a shrouded figure carved in stone, the lid chained to the stone floor. But are the chains to keep robbers from getting in, or to keep what's inside from getting out?

[bunnis-monsters]

NSFW

note: my commissions are open ><

No nut November ends early for your wolf hybrid bf when you go into heat.

You’re such a soft and cute bunny hybrid, your ass in the air and cotton tail wagging like crazy as your pussy drools down your leg. It wasn’t uncommon for you to go into heat at this time of the year, but he hadn’t been expecting it.

His red cock bobbed with need, desperate to plunge into your wet cunt. You were making such cute sounds as his fingers pumped in and out of you, wanting to satisfy your heat without having to lose the game.

But your scent, your little cries of pain and the sight of your tears made him mount you immediately. Nothing was more important than pleasing his little bun!

Being stretched out on his knot was such a relief, you needed to fill his cum filling you up. He bred you like a proper mate should, biting down on your neck to keep you still as he ravaged you.

By the end of the night he had already forgotten about no nut November.

————————

NSFW TAGLIST: @avalordream @icommitwarcrimes @bazpire @im-eating-rn @anglingforlevels @kinshenewa @pasteldaze @yoongiigolden @peachesdabunny @murder-hobo @leiselotte @misswonderfrojustice @dij-ology @i8kaeya @lollboogurl @h3110-dar1in9 @keikokashi @aliceattheart @mssmil3y @spicyspicyliving @namjoons-t1ddies @izarosf1833 @healanette @lem-hhn @spufflepuff @honey-crypt @karljra @zyettemoon1800 @exodiam @vexillum-moeru @imperfectlyperfectprincess1 @binnieonabike @enchantedsylveon @mysticranger575 @readeryn68 @danielle143 @kittenlover614 @filthybunny420 @annavittoria-mm @makimamybelovedwife @blubearxy @omglovelylaila @toocollectionchaos-universe-blog @fruk-you-usuk-fans @wil10wthetree @hammerhead96-blog @slightlyusedfloormat @bubblez-blop @sunshineangel-reads @heroneki-neko

[damneddamsy]

second sight | cregan stark x oc (part v)

a/n: on this episode of Stark Fluff, claere gets a visitor, and cregan has mixed feelings about threesomes. also, cregan learns the harp.

Winterfell wore the slow creep of winter like a familiar cloak. The skies had grown paler, casting the looming walls of the castle in a sallow light, while the cold nipped steadily at its people, urging them to quicken their preparations. From the kitchen to the stables, grain stores were replenishing, the last of the harvest before frost could claim the fields. Blacksmiths hammered iron, the women mended at worn cloaks and men bundled hay for the livestock. Winter was not yet here, but its shadow lingered on the wind, always whispering its warning.

In the heart of the keep, the Glass Gardens had begun to take shape. The towering structure Claere had envisioned stood as a defiant tribute to life in a place where death crept so close. As the days passed, the curved iron frames of the brilliant garden grew taller, and panes of glass steadily fitted into place, though fewer hands worked than before. Claere's journey to the Wall and the ominous silence she had shared upon her return had compelled many away. And yet, those who remained—the builders and labourers still assigned to the task—seemed to grow fond of her, drawn to her quiet kindness, the way she listened with impossible patience to the complications.

But today, the hour she usually spent overseeing the glass gardens came and went. Claere was nowhere to be found.

Cregan noticed her absence first, though no one else seemed to. He strode through the courtyard, determined footsteps echoing through the Great Keep as he searched for her. He had asked the guards, the servants—none had seen her. There was concern in his chest, though his outward manner remained calm, and controlled. His pace eased when he finally came across a group of children playing by the kitchens. They must know something.

He crouched to their height and asked, “Have you seen Lady Stark?”

One of the girls, with red cheeks and tangled braids, blinked up at him. "She must be in the crypts, my lord. She's there on the third day of every sennight."

“The crypts?” Cregan frowned, his confusion evident. “Why?”

The girl only shrugged, her young eyes widening with uncertainty. “My lady says it’s of great benefit.”

A vague answer, but there was little else to go on.

The cold air within the cavernous crypts was still, undisturbed by the world above. As Cregan descended into the darkness, his eyes adjusted to the flickering glow of torches, casting long shadows over the stone effigies of his ancestors. He passed the statues of old kings and queens of the North, of Starks long gone, their direwolves carved faithfully at their feet. Their vigilant, stone eyes seemed to follow him as he walked deeper into the crypts, past his forefathers and mothers, the ancient guardians of Winterfell’s legacy.

It was then that he saw her, like a blossom of blue satin and grey furs in the black earth.

Claere sat on the cold stone floor by the statues of his parents, Lord Rickon Stark and Lady Gillianne Glover, her small form dwarfed by the towering effigies. Candles burned softly around her in quiet vigil, casting a gentle glow over the garlands of winter roses she cradled in her lap. A sea of wilted, woven flowers lay swept to the side—a ritual she had tended to every night, and with a pang in his gut, he realized her abnormal habit had all been for his bygone parents.

His breath caught, a warmth spreading through his chest. She had been honouring them. His own parents. In a way that even he had long forgotten to do. Though why would she, of all people, care?

As he approached her, he heard her familiar song, her voice faint, carrying a resonant yet soothing melody through the crypt. They never rhymed anymore; just lines scrambled and sung to confound.

A rose of blue in the cold earth lay, A fire burned bright, Silver threads in the night. A crown of dreams, A heart of flame, Forgotten now, Yet still the same.

"Claere," he called softly, his voice echoing against the stone walls.

But she didn’t answer. She stayed motionless, her fingers deftly weaving the garlands, her eyes distant, lost in a trance-like reverie. Cregan stepped closer and gently cupped her shoulder.

“Love?” he murmured again, more intent.

This time, she stirred, blinking slowly as if emerging from a dream. Her gaze shifted up to him, soft and dazed. She rubbed at her eyes, her fingers stained with the petals of the roses.

As Cregan crouched beside Claere, the silence was thick, broken only by the distant drip of water echoing somewhere in the depths of Winterfell. He took her bare hands into his, startled by how frigid they were. The touch of her skin was like ice as if she'd been sitting there for hours. He blew gently into her fingers, trying to warm them.

"What are you doing down here alone?" he asked, concern lining his voice.

“They like to speak to me,” she whispered, her voice calm, distant, as though her mind were adrift in another realm. “I heard them the moment I crossed the threshold of the castle. They spoke your name.” She waited, eyes wide. "Did you hear that?"

Cregan's brow furrowed. "There is no voice but ours, love."

She looked away, mumbling, "I heard it."

There was a time when her words, her abnormal ways, would have unsettled him deeply. It was woven into their lives like her rose garlands, a constant. Her peculiar way of seeing the world was no longer alien to him—it had become familiar. Still, he couldn’t help but feel a quiet unease stir in his chest.

“Go on then. What else do they say?” he asked, more to humour her than out of belief, but the curiosity in his tone was real.

“I think they're calm,” she replied, her gaze drifting to statues of his parents. “Content. Now that you're here.”

Cregan exhaled, surprised by how much those words affected him. It was comforting in a way he hadn’t expected, though he didn’t believe in such things—spirits, voices from beyond. He wasn’t a man of superstition, but the idea that his parents might be at peace warmed a part of him he didn’t realize had gone cold.

“What do they say about their son? Do they kick up a big fuss?” he asked, his lips curving into a faint, teasing smile. He carefully balled the long garland she had weaved into a neat pile on her skirt.

“They’re proud,” Claere murmured, her voice gentle, as though the words had floated to her on the breeze. “Your mother—she calls you her little wolf. She wants to hold you once more.”

His heart stilled at that. Little wolf. His mother had called him that, when he was still small enough to crawl into her lap after a long day, his face buried in the scent of her hair. His chest tightened, the ache of loss rising up in his throat. Could Claere really hear them? Was there truth in her words, or was it all part of her unconventional mind?

Cregan lifted his gaze toward the stone faces of his parents, his father's chiselled jaw and his mother's serene expression were immortalized in cold marble, watching over him as they had in life. Claere's soft hum floated through the still air, and something in her melody seemed to stir the memories of those long gone. He couldn’t bear the weight of their unblinking eyes. His throat thickened, and he looked away quickly, the familiar ache of loss sharper than he’d prepared for.

“And my father?” he asked, his voice rough now, bearing apprehension now, the question almost catching in his chest.

“He knows you’ve transcended him,” she replied, her tone soft, as if the words were delicate things. “But he’s glad. He wishes he could be here to see you rule the North as he did once."

That broke something in Cregan. He felt the sting of tears behind his eyes, and before he could stop it, one escaped, rolling down his cheek. His father had always been a stern man, proud but distant, and those words, even if he believed they weren't real, cut deeper than he expected. He had been alone since three and ten, sparing no effort in being a man where he should've been a boy. Such was the duty of an early heir, he had grown up between burdening winters and blades.

Cregan blinked rapidly, turning his cheek to her, trying to clear his vision, but Claere saw it. Her expression shifted—confusion flickered across her features. She reached out, her fingers brushing the tear away with the lightest touch.

“Have I hurt you?” she asked, her voice uncertain, innocent in its concern.

Cregan shook his head, sniffing back the rest of his tears. He smiled softly at her, a smile that was half sorrow, half joy. "No, of course not."

"No?" she echoed.

“I’m grateful. I’m very happy.” His voice cracked as he laughed, almost in disbelief at the way she had managed to stir emotions long buried. "Although I'd rather be gelded than have you see me cry again."

Claere tilted her head, watching him with that dream-like gaze, her mind always half elsewhere. “Tears are the sign of a good heart,” she said simply, though there was still a hint of hesitation in her voice.

As Cregan's deep laugh trailed off, Claere’s gaze slipped to the flickering candle before her. She watched the flame, her fingers hovering near its light as though she could shape the glow with her will alone.

“They’ve gone silent,” she murmured, her voice barely more than a breath. “Since I returned from the Wall… the voices, they’re almost gone now.”

Her words chilled him in a way that had nothing to do with the cold of the crypts. He watched her fingers dance in the flame’s heated tip, and something about the way she spoke—so distant, so lost—made his chest constrict.

“I keep seeing these things. Awful things.” She still wouldn’t look at him, her eyes fixed on the candle’s flame as though it held the answers she sought. “Visions, riddled with frozen fire, no men of women born, blue flames that burned cold, dragons—dead dragons—and spilt blood. Endless dark, unending night.”

Her voice was soft but steady as if recounting some terrible dream. The Wall, the omens, whatever visions or feelings had driven her—they had unsettled her in ways she wasn’t used to conveying.

Cregan swallowed, unable to suppress the shiver that ran through him. Claere rarely expressed her visions with such transparency, yet this time there was something raw in her tone, a dread he had never heard before. If only these people could truly see what she had to bear.

“I believed the lands past the Wall would show me the days of yore,” she continued, her words slipping from her lips like a confession. “I thought it would reflect what I see, but it didn’t. None of it. So now I think—”

She stopped herself, her voice catching in her throat, and for a long moment, she said nothing.

Cregan waited, his heart solemn with tension. Finally, Claere’s gaze lifted from the flame, and when her violet eyes met his, there was a tremor of fear in them, an emotion so unfamiliar in her usually distant, dream-like gaze that it struck him silent.

“I think it is things not yet come to pass,” she whispered, her voice tight, as though it pained her to say it. “I think… they’re coming. I don't know what to do. No one else can see." She shook her head, almost violently, and her hands trembled, her calm veneer fracturing before him. Tears welled at the corner of her eyes. “I cannot stop it, Cregan. It terrifies me.”

The vulnerability in her voice, the aching helplessness, shook him to his core. Claere, who had always been silent and intangible, now stood before him utterly mortal, fragile, and afraid. He had never seen her like this, not in all the time they’d been together. It was as though she carried a brewing storm on her shoulders, and she didn’t know how to face it alone.

Cregan’s instinct was immediate. He gently pulled her toward him with a shush, enfolding his arms around her, and gathering her into his chest.

“No, my love,” he whispered into her hair, his voice soothing. "I'm here. It's alright. They're just dreams."

She melted into him, her body trembling against his, her head resting against his chest. He stroked the side of her head gently, feeling the rapid rise and fall of her breath. Her hands clung to the front of his cloak, desperate, as though his warmth was the only thing tethering her to the present. He pressed a kiss to the top of her head, his lips lingering there, as though willing his strength into her.

“The North has weathered long nights before,” he said quietly, his voice steady, filled with the same resolve that had been passed down through generations of Starks around them. “Stark blood runs deep in these stones. We’ve stood through the darkness, through cold that could break men’s bones. And yet, we stand. Every time, Claere.”

She looked up at him, her wide eyes searching his face, her breath still uneven but slowing.

"What are our house words?" he asked, as if reminding her.

"Winter is coming," she answered breathily.

“Winter is coming,” he echoed, his voice assertive yet tender. He cupped her face gently, his thumb brushing against her cheek as he looked into her eyes. “We will do what we must to defend the realm, through whatever comes. As we always have. You have nothing to fear.”

His words sank into her like warmth, thawing the icy fear that had gripped her. She exhaled, long and slow, her body finally relaxing into his arms. Cregan kissed her cheek, softer this time, feeling the shift in her, the tension ebbing away.

For a long moment, neither of them moved, holding each other in the flickering candlelights, surrounded by the silence of the crypts. The dead watched over them, but their presence no longer felt foreboding—it felt calm and peaceful, as though the ancient Starks could see and approve.

She nodded, her face resting against his chest once more, her breathing finally even. He could still sense the undercurrent of fear that rippled through her, but the worst of it had passed. His mind worked quickly, searching for a way to guide her thoughts away from the darkness she had spoken of.

Softly, he murmured against her hair, "There’s news from Dragonstone."

Claere shifted in his arms, lifting her head to look at him. The mention of Dragonstone sparked a flicker of curiosity in her gaze, enough to break the hold of the haunting visions.

"A raven arrived last night," he continued, his voice casual, as though easing her into something lighter. "Prince Jacaerys flies north on his dragon. He’ll be here within a fortnight."

Her lips parted as if she wanted to say more, but the thought seemed to drift away before she could grasp it. Something was grounding in the knowledge of Prince Jacaerys’ arrival—something beyond the shadows she had seen, a thread of the present to hold on to.

He gave her a slight squeeze, his thumb brushing a strand of her silver hair behind her ear, a playful glint in his eye. "We'll find out soon enough. But for now, let's get you warm. You'll turn into a sculpture yourself if you're here any longer."

Claere’s lips quirked, a touch of amusement flickering through the lingering shadows in her eyes. “A lady of ice.”

Cregan smirked. “Not on my watch.”

X

The fruits of labour are often hard-won, and in Claere’s case, it was quite literal. A month past, she had flown on Luna, disappearing into the night for three days. Although it had endlessly upset Cregan, upon her return, it was with the spoils of her journey—seeds from distant lands, collected with care and intent. These seeds were her gift to Winterfell’s glass gardens, her quiet revolt against the fatty northern diet.

Among them were golden beets from the Reach, hardy winter squash, and sweet, bright carrots from Highgarden. She’d also returned with seeds of hearty cabbages and turnips, the kinds of food that could survive even in the harsher climate of the North. And now, after weeks of tilling and patience, some of the plants had finally sprouted, tiny green shoots peeking through the soil like fragile promises of life.

But her project had not remained hers alone for long. Claere, with her quiet strangeness, had drawn the children of Winterfell into it, gradually involving them in nurturing the new glasshouse. The saplings became theirs as much as hers, and the little Northerners guarded them as fiercely as they did their direwolves. Though they laughed and played around her, tending to the glass gardens with dirt-smeared cheeks and eager hands, the adults stood back—watching with cautious, measured eyes.

Now, it called for a celebration. Claere had returned from an early morning flight on Luna, bringing with her the largest haul yet—sacks of ripe persimmons, plucked from the orchards of the Vale. The children gathered around her, eyes wide and filled with excitement. Persimmons were rare in the North, almost unheard of past the Twins, and to them, this was a treasure trove.

She stood there, composed and aloof, while the children crowded at her feet, clutching at her skirts.

"My lady," one small boy asked in awe, peering into the sack, "what kind of fruit is this?"

“Persimmons,” Claere told them. “From the Vale. If honeycomb were a fruit, it would be this.”

One of the girls hesitated, looking up with wide, curious eyes. "Persimmons. But why do they look like little jewels?"

Claere glanced down at the fruit in the child’s hand. “They are… in a way,” she mused, her fingers brushing the leathery skin of a persimmon. “Jewels of the trees. Careful not to crack your teeth on them.”

The children giggled, their awe unabashed. But from the edges of the courtyard, some of the adults watched the scene with guarded expressions. One of the mothers—an older woman with a stern face—made her way toward them, half-heartedly pulling her child back.

"My lady," the woman began cautiously, her tone respectful but wary, "your kindness knows no limit… but persimmons, foreign fruits—are they not better suited for lords and ladies’ tables? Perhaps the children ought to…?"

Claere turned her gaze to the woman, her eyes calm, as if considering the unspoken reluctance. She did not speak at first, only handed the sack to one of the boys who held it up for the others to reach.

“They’re fruits of the earth,” she said softly, “not gold meant to be hoarded. What grows must be shared. It's why the Glass Gardens are being built.”

There was a pause, tension still lingering in the air. A few of the men exchanged glances, unsure of this Targaryen's ways—so different from the daughters of the North they knew.

Then one of the fathers, a grizzled man with a thick beard, broke the silence with a short laugh. “As long as my son doesn’t bring more seeds to my house, we’ll thank you, my lady.”

His words loosened the air, drawing chuckles from others. The children cheered as they dug into the fruit, but the adults, though warmer now, still watched her carefully. In small, deliberate ways—through her gifts, her gentle efforts to nurture life in this land—she was inching closer, bridging the invisible divide between herself and the North.

"Come now, pups," a young lady led the children away with their happy squalls, "one for each. Share it with the others."

"Arrys took three! Fatty!"

"Hey, that's mine!"

"Mine's a little green!"

It was subtle, this shift. Like the first, almost imperceptible thaw after a long winter, when the snow begins to soften at the edges, and the hard ground yields just enough to suggest that spring might, one day, arrive.

Claere’s eyes lingered on the adults for a moment longer, as though she understood. She wasn’t sure she could ever be loved like one of their own. And while they still watched her warily, with eyes that carried centuries of cold caution, there was a slow, begrudging acceptance in their gaze. The kind of acceptance that wasn’t born out of understanding, but out of recognition—recognition that, for all her strange ways, she was not giving up.

“My lady!” A breathless guard stumbled toward her, his face flushed with urgency. He dropped into a quick bow, his words fumbling as they spilt out.

“Scouts have spotted a dragon. We believe... it’s your brother, the prince.”

Her brother. Jacaerys.

The news sent a ripple through Claere’s thoughts, pulling her out of the quiet reverie she’d fallen into. She nodded, dismissing the guard and strolling away from the castle entrance, and soon turned her gaze skyward, watching as Vermax circled in the distance, preparing to land. Luna twitched behind her, growling low, sensing another dragon’s presence but remaining calm as Vermax descended.

Jacaerys landed some distance away from Luna, cautious not to provoke the larger dragon. Vermax was a mere hatchling in comparison to Luna, poised by her rider protectively.

As her brother dismounted, Claere observed him from afar, her emotions a tangled web. She hadn’t seen him in many long months. The boy she remembered had been full of vigour and promise, but now, standing before her, Jacaerys had grown in ways she hadn’t fully anticipated.

The man who approached her was taller, his shoulders broader, his gait that of a prince who had known the significance of command. His dark hair, tousled by flight, framed a face more serious than it had once been. There was a formality to him, a distance that felt almost like the expanse between them, even though they were blood.

Their relationship had not always been like this—distant, formal. He was once her buffer against her vengeful uncles, Aegon and Aemond, and her safest confidante in the Red Keep. He only happened to sour to her presence after their mother, Queen Rhaenyra, had blissfully betrothed them when they were children of nine, for the strengthening of their bloodline and her irrefutable claim to the throne. It was declared null when her mother faced the threat of dispersion from Lord Corlys on Driftmark that she joined Laena Velaryon's daughters to her prince sons in holy matrimony.

Where Claere had somewhat bonded with her younger brothers Lucerys and Joffrey, Jacaerys had remained like a stranger thereafter. He had never been unkind to her, never prodded at her oddities, only stayed apathetic, their connection one of duty rather than affection. He had always seemed uncertain of how to approach her, and she had never sought him out. They had lived like shadows, passing by each other but never truly meeting.

“Sister,” Jacaerys greeted her upon reaching her, his voice polite, measured. He dipped his head, ever respectful, the heir to the throne. "How you've grown in mere moons. And so has Luna."

She imparted a brief nod. "Brother," she greeted back quietly. Her eyes darted to Vermax, his green-scaled dragon, beady eyes watchful of his rider. "Vermax has come to be formidable."

"Indeed," Jace said, sounding proud of himself, peeking back at his dragon. "You'll also be pleased to know that Tyraxes has finally taken to wing. Ought to see Joff instead of me next time."

Slightly hesitant, she asked, "And this time?"

"I've come to see how you're faring," and quickly included, "upon mother's request. As her envoy."

His eyes flashed down to her flat abdomen for a split second, possibly gauging the extent of a prosperous marriage. So far, he was not convinced. It had nearly been six moons, yet no cries of a Stark lordling sounded in the halls.

“I am well,” Claere answered, her tone just as restrained as his.

His dark eyes flicked toward the great castle, then back to her. “There have been… rumours. Whispers from the North that have reached the Queen’s ears. She was concerned.”

Rumours. She knew what he implied—the discontent among the Northerners, their ever-growing suspicion of her, the whispers of a Valyrian witch who crossed the Wall and lived to tell the tale. It had been expanding slowly, like frost creeping across the ground before winter.

“They matter little,” Claere replied, her voice barely above a whisper.

Jacaerys didn’t respond at first, his gaze sharp as he studied her. Then, with the smallest hint of reluctance, he responded, “I am still your brother, Claere. Marriage cannot dissolve that. I rule over Dragonstone with Baela and if you wish it, I will gladly have you back home or with our brothers in the Red Keep."

It wasn’t quite an offer, more like a suggestion left hanging in the cold air between them. A way out, should she want it. Simply renounce a vain, hopeless marriage and move on.

Claere’s eyes met his, and for a moment, she wondered if he meant it. Did her dear brother truly want her back, or was this merely a way to ease his guilty conscience? To not have suspected the consequences beforehand, before she was ever traded off to the unaccepting North? She glanced at Luna, standing watch behind her, and then back to Jacaerys.

A brief silence passed between them before he spoke again, his voice lighter, though still formal. “I'd like to speak to Lord Stark. Perhaps he'd have a response for the crown.”

X

The Great Hall of Winterfell felt colder than usual that evening. The large hearth blazed, but the warmth seemed to be swallowed by the heavy silence hanging between the three nobles seated at the long table. Cregan sat at the head, his posture relaxed yet every muscle tensed beneath the surface, his eyes occasionally drifting toward Claere on habit, who sat beside him, ever the silent enigma. Across from them, Jacaerys Velaryon sat straight-backed, his dark eyes flicking between his hosts, clearly working up to something but holding back—for now.

The tension was palpable, thick enough to slice through with a blade, but neither man addressed the looming unspoken questions yet. Claere seemed unconcerned, as she picked at the modest fare before her, her pale eyes focused on nothing in particular. She was present yet did not seem so, lost in her world.

Cregan noticed her silver crown of braids, how they were styled in the manner of a Southern lady, perhaps to butter up to her brother. He never thought he would infuriated over something as foolish as hair, and ought to chastise those handmaidens of hers who only worked around his cause.

Jace cleared his throat, breaking the silence as he reached for his goblet, swirling the golden ale inside. He offered a polite smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes.

"This beverage is excellent, my lord," Jace began, a tentative olive branch. "And the pie—'tis the heartiest I've had. Sustains the North, I’m sure. Though I can imagine it’s difficult for... some to thrive on such fare."

His gaze dashed briefly to Claere, lingering on her thinner frame. It wasn’t a pointed stare, but the implication hung in the air. Her weight loss, her difficulty sustaining herself on the limited northern diet—it was not lost on him.

Cregan’s jaw clenched, though his smile remained courteous. "We manage well enough," he said, his voice patient. "The Glass Gardens have begun to yield fresh crops. Our granaries our vast. We make sure every Northerner has everything they require come winter."

There was a subtle challenge in Cregan’s words, a quiet assertion of his control over his household and his care for his wife. The implication was clear: I’ve got it covered.

Jace gave a tight nod, his lips pressed thinly together. The conversation lulled back into awkward silence, the crackling of the fire and the clinking of cutlery the only sounds between them. Claere remained as she had been—detached, her pale eyes drifting from the flames in the hearth to the fruit on her plate.

Jacaerys hesitated before speaking again, as though weighing his next words carefully.

"Has Claere ever told you," he drawled, his tone lighter but carrying an undercurrent of something more, "that she and I are twins?"

Cregan’s gaze shifted to Jace, then to Claere, and back again. It rattled him, if only for a moment. Twins? It seemed impossible. Jacaerys, with his dark ringlets and strong build, bore the hallmarks of House Velaryon though, some whispered, his true father, Ser Harwin Strong. Claere, on the other hand, was the image of Old Valyria—silver hair, pale skin, violet eyes, as if fire and ice had mingled to create her. The stark contrast between them had always been striking, and now it seemed even more so. He simply deemed it unlikely at first glance.

"Yes, we were inseparable," the young prince continued, his tone cautious. "We shared the same womb, weaned from the same breast, and learned together as children. We were even betrothed for a time, like our ancestors before us."

Jace's eyes narrowed slightly as Cregan's fingers fisted, and though his tone remained neutral, there was an edge to his words. "But even after all that, there are things about my sister I still cannot begin to comprehend."

Cregan’s eyes darkened, understanding the implication. Jace wasn’t just talking about family ties; he was probing, testing for weaknesses, for fractures in the foundation of Claere’s place in Winterfell. It was a subtle attempt, cloaked in brotherly concern, but Cregan was no fool.

"Aye, that may be," Cregan replied evenly, leaning back in his chair, his fingers tapping against his goblet. "But what man can claim to entirely understand a woman, even one he’s known all his life? Claere may be... finding her feet, but that doesn’t make her any less at home here."

Jace raised an eyebrow, his lips curling into a faint, sardonic smile. "You speak as if she’s already oriented herself here, Lord Stark. Though from what I’ve heard, not all in the North share your sentiment."

The jab was delivered mildly, but it hit its mark. Cregan’s expression hardened slightly, his palm tight around his fork, though his tone remained calm. "Winterfell is nearly frozen over. It takes time for new blood to warm itself to these halls. But we’ve had Targaryens here before, and they’ve got by just fine."

"Mm," Jace hummed into his glass, "dragonblood runs hotter than you can imagine."

"Makes it easier then."

Jace leaned forward, setting his goblet down. "That’s just it, isn’t it? Claere is no mere Targaryen. She’s my twin. She has just as much claim to our mother’s throne as I do."

The implicit tension snapped into something sharper, more dangerous. The Iron Throne. The claim. It hung between them like a storm on the horizon, unstated but ever-present. Should sides be drawn in the future, blood could be spilt—not over affection, but over power, the oldest and most treacherous currency. He could imagine it: Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, Claere Targaryen, and her king consort, the King in the North, Cregan Stark. It tasted foul on his tongue, withered to ashes as soon as it appeared. Claere was queen, here. She was the winter's queen, a fire that would burn a beacon in the North.

Cregan’s eyes narrowed, though his expression remained stoic. "Are you suggesting something, my prince? Sowing seeds of war in my soil, possibly?" he asked, his voice low, enduring as a mountain before the storm. "Because it sounds as though you’re questioning my lady's fealty to her home."

Jace’s eyes flashed, but he didn’t back down. "I’m simply reminding you of who she is. And that, as much as you may think you understand her, there are parts of Claere that no one can reach." His gaze drifted to Claere then, who sat as still as stone, her eyes on the flickering flame. "Not even me."

Cregan studied Jacaerys for a long moment before turning his gaze to Claere. She had been a quiet, odd presence throughout this verbal sparring match, content to let the two men duel with words over her head. But now, as Jace’s words hung in the air, she finally looked up, meeting Cregan’s eyes with her own.

Cregan leaned back in his chair, a calculated look forming as his hand rested on Claere’s thigh.

His voice lowered, carrying an undercurrent of challenge but framed in civility. "It seems we find ourselves at an impasse. Perhaps a better question, my prince, is not who has known Claere through six moons or sixteen years, but who has tried to understand her the most."

Bitterness flickered in Jace's gaze. He leaned forward, not willing to be outdone. "It’s not the little things that bind people. It’s blood, shared history. We came into this world together."

Cregan’s lips curved into a cold, knowing smile. "Aye, you did. But who stands by you in the darkest hour matters, not who was there when the sun first rose."

Jace’s face flushed with frustration. He glanced at Claere, who sat impassive as ever, and then back to Cregan, clearly at a loss. It seemed like he wanted to argue for a moment, but nothing came. The Stark lord's words had landed.

"Jace is right," she said quietly, her voice soft but collected. "He doesn't know me fully, nor do I know him as I should." Her eyes shifted toward her brother, a faraway sorrow touching her expression. "We've spent years apart—fates pulling us in different directions. He's not wrong about that."

Jace straightened up, a gleam of triumph surfacing in his expression, but before he could speak, Claere turned her gaze back to Cregan, her voice clearer, firmer.

"But that doesn’t imply I am not where I am meant to be."

Jace's smile faded. Her words were simple, undefined as ever, but they carried the gravity intended. It was a quiet reminder that she had chosen Winterfell, that she had chosen Cregan. And though her ways might be unconventional, she was committed to that choice.

Cregan’s expression softened slightly as he looked at her, the tension in his stance easing. Every inch of him swelled with pride at her words.

"I belong here now, Jacaerys," she declared to him.

"These people whisper at you like cravens, sister," Jace told her irately. "They have no regard for the power at your helm. Seven hells, you ride the White Dread. Yet they disparage you and hail you a witch."

"I will not have her leave her home for it," Cregan cut in sharply, his words slicing through the thickening tension.

Jace’s lips pressed into a thin line, his earlier confidence ebbing into frustration. "Home?" he repeated, the word laced with disbelief. “She is of the blood of Old Valyria. She belongs in a throne room, with her dragon soaring over Blackwater Bay—not wasting away in the most forgotten corners of the realm.”

"Wasting away?" Cregan’s voice dropped to a deadly stillness, his eyes narrowing. “She flourishes here, despite whatever Southern comforts you think she’s lost.”

Jace’s gaze sharpened, unwilling to back down. "Look at her, Stark. She's barely a shadow of—"

"Stop."

Claere’s voice cut through the rising tension, abrupt and shrill, though her tone was calm. Both men fell silent.

For a heartbeat, neither Jace nor Cregan moved, their stances locked in defiance, accusations hanging gravely in the air. The room seemed to shrink, the air charged between them as if the two men stood on the brink of war than the moment itself.

Cregan’s jaw tightened, his gaze darkening as he regarded the prince. His voice dropped to a dangerously calm whisper, more powerful in its restraint.

“You speak of power as if it is the only thing that holds this realm together. But it’s not power that keeps this castle standing. It’s hard work, loyalty, honour. Do you think strength alone carried Winterfell through the long winters and centuries?”

Jace’s eyes flicked to Claere, then back to Cregan, the frown on his face deepening. “Loyalty?" he said, his voice tinged with scepticism. "Yes. But loyalty can break as easily as ice, especially when those in the shadows do not see strength."

“They see what I choose to show them,” Cregan shot back, his voice steady, unflinching. “And they see a queen standing beside me. She is spoken for in my name. That’s all they need to know.”

The silence that followed was thick and heavy as if the very stones of Winterfell had taken a breath and held it. Jace’s brow furrowed, his jaw tight as he tried to digest what Cregan said. Queen? The word hung in the air between them, a title not formally bestowed, yet it carried a deeper truth.

Jace’s gaze flicked between them—Cregan, with his unyielding confidence, and Claere, with her quiet, ethereal presence. He tried to grasp it, to make sense of how this odd, reserved sister of his had become something more in the eyes of these Northern people. For all their whispered words, all their doubts and suspicions about her, they still regarded her as something more than a mere consort. She had carved out a place here, without needing to raise a sword or a dragon in her defence. She was no longer a pawn at their mother's behest.

Jace exhaled, his hands resting on the table, his earlier edge of confrontation slipping away.

"I have only wanted what's best for her. And to my mother, it was to bring her back to Dragonstone. Live out her days as she wished, rid off calumnies." Finally, he nodded, settling into a reluctant acceptance. “Now I see... she's not alone."

Cregan’s gaze was unflinching as he spoke. “She never was.”

Jace looked between them, Cregan’s words settling over the table like a thick winter’s snow. Claere’s eyes met her brother's in a fleeting but meaningful look.

Jace, for all his formality, nodded, understanding more than words could say. "Then we place our trust in your hands, my lord, and the princess' peace of mind."

And the Stark, ever the wolf in his den, would guard her with teeth bared if need be. Cregan’s hand tightened on Claere’s, his voice low and relentless.

“You’ll leave Lady Stark in the only hands she needs.”

X

Claere stood in the doorway of Jace’s chambers, her presence barely announced by the soft scrape of her shoes on stone. In her arms, a basket, small and modest, yet unmistakably precious—the glint of warm dragon eggs nestled within.

Jace looked up from his desk, startled by the sight of her, and rose slowly, his brow furrowed in confusion. "Sister."

“For the new princess,” she announced, her voice low, measured.

She offered the basket, her fingers lingering on the handle for a moment before retreating into the folds of her gown. Her gaze remained fixed on the gleaming eggs as if their presence alone carried the message.

Jace blinked, surprise flashing across his face before he laughed, though the sound lacked true mirth.

“Of course. You always seem to know more than most,” he said, shaking his head in disbelief. “No one’s spoken of the babe—not even to the Queen.”

Her lips barely moved as she responded, her tone distant, almost cryptic. “The winds carry luck and warnings alike.”

"We've named her Laena."

She inclined her head ever so slightly. “An auspicious name. May she prosper.”

Her words were curt and formal, as though there was nothing more between them than this exchange. The air between them felt colder, stretched thin by years and decisions not their own. He had always hoped for more—some kind of familiarity, some bridge between their shared past—but that hope had been dashed time and time again. The rift, born of their mother's scheming and expectations, had only deepened over the years.

“I wish you good fortune, brother,” Claere said finally, her voice flat, the words of courtesy hollow.

Jace sighed, the weight of lost years heavy on him. He had wanted to speak with her, to find some common ground, but she had always been like this—elusive, indistinct, a world apart even when she stood in the same room. Time had slipped away, and no ravens sent across the vast expanse of that distance could ever reclaim what was lost.

"Lord Stark seems quite fond of you," he tried to say, softening his tone. "I am glad you've found someone to treasure. I also hear that you crossed the Wall alone—"

"The hour grows late. I should leave you to your rest." So blunt, a blade cutting through any illusion of warmth between them.

"Claere, wait," he muttered as she turned to leave.

His sister paused, though her back remained to him, her silence stifling. She did not look at him, and yet he felt her eyes upon him, offering no solace, only the unyielding distance that had grown between them.

Jace hesitated, searching for the right words. “The throne… it’s a cage, not a crown. You know that as well as I. You don’t need it. You don’t want it.”

Claere turned, her gaze indistinct, as if she were dissecting his meaning without revealing any of her own. He took a breath, willing her to understand.

“We were born the same. But only one of us can sit up there. And you’ve never belonged in its shadow. You’re beyond it.”

The silence that followed was thicker, heavier than before. His words hung in the air, an unspoken plea for her to step aside, to yield something that, by all rights, was hers to claim.

She said nothing, but her silence screamed louder than words, and in that void, Jace felt the weight of all that had passed between them, the years lost, the closeness forsaken.

"I'm sorry, sister," he admitted, his voice a soft plea. "For all of it. I wish it did not come to this."

She raised her brows, her eyes sharp as violet shards. "Come to what?"

Jace faltered, caught off guard by the calmness of her tone, the way her words sliced through his own hesitation. He swallowed hard, searching for something to grasp onto. "This anonymity. Our own mother's ambition has turned us into strangers."

Claere's lips lifted to a bleak smile. "Our mother did not do that, Jacaerys. You did."

She stood there, her face unmoving, the silence thick between them. There was no anger in her eyes, but neither was there forgiveness. Just that same cool, detached calm. And with that, she turned and left, leaving him alone in the echo of his apology.

He stared after her, the basket of eggs still warm in his hands, and the cold truth of her departure settling like frost, realizing that whatever bridge he had hoped to build between them had crumbled long ago.

X

As night closed in, Cregan and Claere's bedroom was bathed in darkness, save for the pale glow of moonlight sloping through the windows, casting long shadows over the stone floor.

Cregan lay awake, his mind restless, replaying the tension of the evening with Jace. He’d handled it as he always did—with authority and force. But had he thought of her? Claere had said little at dinner, her quiet presence always hard to read. Yet Cregan couldn’t shake the feeling he should have asked her, should have drawn her into the conversation instead of battling it out alone.

Beside him, Claere stirred. He watched her wake from the pillows, her bare feet silent against the cold floor as she moved, a familiar routine. Her nightdress clung to her form, delicate and flowing, the pale fabric shifting with each step. She drifted toward her harp—a massive, exquisite instrument that seemed to be attached to her as much as her dragon did. He'd watched her do this countless times, slipping into her world of music as if it were the only place where she could find peace.

Cregan’s eyes followed her as she sat, the harp resting between her legs. She flicked her long, silver hair over her shoulder, tucking the loose strands behind her ear before her fingers found the strings. Each pluck sent a soft note into the air, a lulling melody filling the room, soothing and haunting all at once. Her eyes stared unseeingly at the carpet as she hummed, a low, wordless tune that rose and fell with the notes. Her fingers danced across the strings effortlessly, creating music that seemed to be born of the night itself.

She was the vision of every man’s dream—stunning, elusive. And yet, even as she sat there, calm and poised, Cregan could feel her unease, buried beneath that impassive exterior. He knew her anxieties, could sense them in the way her shoulders tensed, in the small tremor in her breath. He should have asked her, should have given her the space to speak her thoughts, to let her feelings surface.

Quietly, he pushed off the furs and moved toward her, sitting behind her on the long bench. His broad hands slid over her waist, firm yet tender, grounding her as he drew closer. Claere’s fingers continued to dance over the strings, but he felt the stillness in her body, the way her breath caught as his presence nudged against her. He straddled her from behind, thighs sweeping hers, his chin resting on her shoulder, carefully sweeping her hair aside to expose the pale curve of her neck. Soft, lazing kisses followed—his lips grazing her skin, teeth teasing in between. The touch was enough to break her concentration; her fingers faltered, missing the next note. Her humming stilled, but she didn’t pull away.

"It's as if you were made to indulge me," he murmured against her skin, the words low and warm as he kissed her ear, drawing her closer to him with every word.

A soft smile tugged at Claere’s lips. "Not long ago, this used to scare you witless."

Cregan chuckled, a low sound that rumbled against her back, his lips pressing more firmly into her cheek. “Maybe earlier,” he admitted, his breath hot against her skin, “but now. Now I think of immensely bold acts I'd like to see play out.”

His hands slid up her sides, pulling her in closer, as though she was the only thing that could still his thoughts. He pushed another kiss at the seam of her jaw, teeth sinking in to tug at it.

"Do you want it, love?" he rasped.

Her fingers idly plucked at the gold strings. "You?"

"You already have me. I meant the Iron Throne."

Claere’s fingers stilled on the harp strings, the delicate melody faltering, as though his offer had reached even the instrument.

Cregan had always been a man of ancient power, cold winds, and the endless stretches of the North—they were in his blood as much as his duty to his people. He had never wanted the games of the South, the crown’s politicking, the endless pursuit of power. All he had ever wanted was to serve his house and to care for the woman he had sworn his heart to.

But as he held Claere close, her warmth seeping into him in the quiet of the room, his mind was at war with itself. For her, he would march on King’s Landing, he would challenge any lord, any crown, if she asked it. And that thought ate at him, for it wasn’t a war he desired—it was her. Only her.

“I'd give it to you when the time comes,” he whispered again, reluctance carefully concealed. He pressed another kiss into the soft curve of her jaw, his breath heavy against her skin. “If you said it, I’d rally all the houses under my yoke, raise my banners and claim what’s rightfully yours. I'll lay all of Westeros at your feet.”

Her body tensed beneath his touch, but she said nothing at first. The silence stretched, and it unsettled him. He felt her thinking, felt her calculating in that quiet way she had. She always had a way of making him question himself without uttering a word.

“You would march south for me?” she finally asked, her voice low, like a ripple across still water.

Cregan's hands gripped her waist more firmly as he processed her quiet words. She hadn't given him a direct answer, not about the Iron Throne, not about power or the realms beyond the North. But there was something in her silence, the way her fingers had resumed their light plucking at the strings of the harp, her eyes half-lidded in thought. His heart clenched, torn between duty and desire.

His voice was a low rumble, roughened by the cold and tension. "Aye."

"Then what?" she mused.

He was evidently thrown. "You... you could have it all—power, praise. No one would ever question your place. They’d fear you, respect you. The entire realm."

She paused, her hands resting against the harp strings, but her face remained unreadable. After a moment, she tilted her head slightly, her silver hair brushing his chin.

"And what would you do then?" she asked. "Once we have seized the Red Keep, and slain my brother and his heir, would you rule by my side, or would you abandon me in that gold cage with bloodstains?"

His jaw clenched as the simplicity behind her cruel words settled.

"There must always be a Stark at Winterfell," she claimed in a mumble, her tone unyielding, almost teasing. "Would you leave me to be poisoned by the court of vipers while you return home?"

He swallowed, his throat tight. The truth of her question was too clear. The North was in his blood, a responsibility that was older than any crown. And yet, for her, he had entertained the unimaginable. He could see it in her eyes now—the depths of her meaning, the question he hadn’t fully understood.

“You fit in here, with me," she said softly, her fingers brushing over his wrist, still resting on her waist. "This is the only place I’ve ever truly felt at peace. The North may whisper against me, but it has been kinder to me than any throne ever was."

Cregan let out a slow breath, his hand sliding up to her throat. The magnitude of her words pulled at him, grounding him in a way no talk of crowns or power could. He urged her cheek against his forehead, seeking warmth in her closeness.

"Here is good," she murmured, cupping his jaw. "Here, where the cold is real and not the cruelty of men."

And for the first time since he had offered her the world, he understood the answer. It was never about gold, crowns, or kingdoms. It was about the home they had made together, in the harsh, unyielding North.

Cregan pressed a lingering kiss against the pulse of her neck as if drawing strength from the steady rhythm beneath her skin. “You’re my queen, always,” he whispered, the words no longer about crowns or thrones.

At that moment, he knew he needed no banners, no throne to claim. He had already won the greatest battle of all—he had her.

Claere's lips curved, her hand tracing the shadow of his beard.

"A queen without a crown," she murmured, more to herself, the playful glint still present. "And without subjects, save perhaps you."

He laughed deeply, the sound rumbling against her skin before he glanced at the harp resting before them. With a grin tugging at his lips, Cregan reached for it, his large frame seemed out of place with the delicate instrument, but he was undeterred.

“Or I presume,” Claere teased, her back leaning against him, feeling the warmth of his chest. "The King in the North who fancies himself a minstrel?"

Cregan plucked a string awkwardly, the sound that followed more of a discordant twang than music. He winced but smiled, undaunted.

“There’s more to me than swords and axes, you know," he pointed out. "I am quite the bard myself. Listen to this."

He cleared his throat to sing out in a low-pitched voice, fumbling with the strings and producing another off-key note. Claere listened eagerly, holding all the stars in the sky captive momentarily.

Claere, oh, sweet Claere, She plays like a queen, Every note is like a spell, And here I am, A loopy fuckin' fool, Breaking her strings Oh, she hides her laugh well!

Claere burst into laughter, hiding her face behind her hands, a rare sound that filled the hushed space between them, and Cregan looked even more pleased with her reaction than his musical attempt.

“You’ve got that laugh locked away like a prize, don’t you?”

“I don’t laugh at just anything,” she said, her voice warm but with that familiar edge of wit.

Cregan arched a brow. “I’m special then?”

"Very much."

Moving close and her hands over his, she guided his fingers to the proper strings, her touch gentle, her movements graceful. Together, entwined, they coaxed a soft, sweet melody from the harp.

Cregan barely cared for the music. His focus was entirely on her—her warmth, the way her fingers danced across his own, the rare smile that hadn’t left her lips for a long time. How wondrous would it be to be stuck here, this way, with nothing but time to keep them apart?

“I admit defeat,” he murmured, his voice low, amused. “I think the harp is yours, love.”

Claere’s smile softened as she continued to guide his hands. "A queen with a harp," she mused, her voice low and warm. "Perhaps that’s all I require."

Cregan, eyes crinkling with a smile, leaned in closer, his breath against her ear. “That, and me.”

"Perhaps..."

Claere laughed, a soft, clear sound, and kissed him, her warmth banishing any lingering tension. He moved his grinning lips with hers, holding her safe in his palms, now truly untouchable.

"I’ll settle for just you," she whispered.

X

I'm opening my inbox for asks for one-shots on Claere and Cregan! I'm not sure how that works, but I'll learn as I go :)

a question for my kind ones: if Cregan and Claere had a date night, what do you think that would look like? go as wild as you can!

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