#Thread-Safe Ruby | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

novaursa · 10 months ago

Text

Valyrian Bride (Final Chapter)

- Summary: When your older brother, Jacaerys, promised you to Cregan to be his bride, the Lord Stark did not expect what he got - a trueborn dragon.

- Pairing: velaryon!reader/Cregan Stark

- Rating: Mature 16+ (just to be safe)

- Previous part: continuation

- Next part: dragon eggs

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @daeryna @melsunshine @21-princess @ferakillia

The dawn of their wedding day broke with a rare warmth for the North, the sky a deep, endless blue above Winterfell. Snow clung to the castle’s ancient stones, but the air was still, as though even the wind itself held its breath in anticipation. The entire stronghold seemed to hum with energy, its people gathered from every corner of the Stark lands to witness a union that had already become the subject of countless whispered tales.

Cregan Stark stood in the courtyard, the grey furs of his cloak draped across his broad shoulders, his usual starkness softened by the weight of the day. His heart, so often steeled against emotion, was lighter today, a sense of anticipation thrumming in his veins. He had faced battle, the harsh winters of the North, and the endless responsibilities of leading his house, but nothing felt quite like this. Today, he was not just Lord of Winterfell—he was a man about to be wed.

The courtyard was bustling with activity. Banners of House Stark and House Targaryen fluttered side by side, their sigils sharp contrasts—wolf and dragon, winter and fire. His bannermen, all garbed in their finest, stood near the towering trees of the godswood, while the castle’s women prepared the space for the ceremony that was to take place beneath the Heart Tree.

The great Weirwood loomed tall, its ancient face carved into the pale bark, its red leaves fluttering like the blood of old gods. This was where Cregan had wanted to wed her, beneath the watchful eyes of the gods of the North, and though she had been born to the faith of the Seven, the princess had agreed without hesitation. She was to become a Stark, after all, and she would take her place among their traditions.

The quiet murmur of the crowd hushed suddenly, as a figure appeared at the edge of the courtyard. Cregan’s breath caught in his throat as he saw her.

She stood at the threshold, wrapped in rich silver and deep crimson. Her gown was a marvel of southern craftsmanship, its fabric shimmering in the morning light like molten fire. The silver thread that wound through the delicate embroidery reflected her Valyrian heritage, its designs reminiscent of the ancient sigils of her forebears. Her hair, like strands of spun moonlight, was woven into intricate braids, entwined with tiny pearls and rubies that caught the light, making her appear as though a crown of stars rested upon her head.

And yet, for all the beauty of her attire, it was her bearing that stole Cregan’s breath. She moved with the quiet confidence he had come to admire, her violet eyes focused on him as though there was no one else in the world. There was no trace of nervousness, no hesitation—she was every inch the dragon’s daughter, proud and regal, yet today, she walked toward him as his bride.

The crowd parted for her, whispers trailing in her wake, but no one dared to speak aloud. Even Cregan’s bannermen, hardened men of the North, stood silently, as if afraid to disturb the moment. He heard the faint murmur of the word Valyria pass between them, a reminder of the ancient blood she carried, blood older than any in Westeros.

As she reached him beneath the Heart Tree, Cregan felt the weight of the moment settle over them both. She lifted her head, her eyes locking onto his, and for a moment, the world around them seemed to fade away. The godswood, the crowd, the banners—all of it was distant, insignificant. There was only her, and the promise they were about to make.

Maester Kennet, chosen to officiate the ceremony, stepped forward, his voice strong but reverent. “We gather here beneath the eyes of the Old Gods, to witness the union of House Stark and House Targaryen. Winter and fire, bound together.”

Cregan turned toward her, taking her hands in his. They were warm despite the cold air, her skin soft against his roughened palms. As they stood there, so close, he could see the faintest flicker of emotion in her eyes—a softness that she seldom let others see.

“I, Cregan Stark, take you, Y/N Velaryon, to be my wife,” he said, his voice firm but laden with meaning. “From this day until my last. I will stand with you, through fire and snow, through war and peace. I swear it before the gods, before my people, and before you.”

Her lips curved ever so slightly, her voice steady and clear when she spoke her vows in turn. “I, Y/N Velaryon, take you, Cregan Stark, to be my husband. I pledge my fire to your winter, my strength to your cause, my loyalty to your heart. From this day until my last breath, I will stand with you. This I swear before the gods, before your people, and before you.”

The words hung in the air, tangible and full of weight. Cregan felt them settle into his soul, binding him to her in a way that was more profound than he had anticipated. There was a finality to it, but it was not a burden—it was a promise he wanted to keep.

Maester Kennet raised his hands. “By the old gods and the new, I declare you husband and wife.”

Cregan didn’t wait for the maester to finish. He pulled her to him, his hands still wrapped around hers, and kissed her. It was not a show for the crowd, nor was it born out of any sense of duty—it was a moment just for them, filled with the raw certainty of the vows they had exchanged.

The crowd erupted into cheers, the sound filling the courtyard and echoing off the ancient walls of Winterfell. Cregan, for once, did not care who was watching. When he pulled away, the smile on his face was genuine, and for a moment, he saw a glimmer of the same emotion reflected in her eyes.

They turned to face the crowd, and as they walked through the throng, hand in hand, Cregan caught the glances exchanged between his bannermen and the ladies of Winterfell. His bannermen, who had known him since boyhood, seemed almost astonished by the expression on his face. They had rarely, if ever, seen him smile like this.

Later, the maesters would record that no one had seen Cregan Stark smile more than on this day, save for the birth of his first child with the princess. But in that moment, as they walked through the people of Winterfell, his heart felt as though it might burst with the weight of the joy he carried.

As the newlyweds entered the great hall, the feast that awaited them was grander than any Winterfell had seen in years. Tables were laden with food, goblets filled with wine and ale, and laughter already filled the room. But even amidst the celebration, Cregan’s focus remained on her—his wife.

He leaned in close, his voice low enough for only her to hear. “You make Winterfell warmer, princess.”

She tilted her head to him, her smile soft but knowing. “Perhaps it’s not just the fire in me, but the wolf in you.”

He chuckled, a deep, content sound. “A wolf and a dragon. We’ll see what kind of legends they make of us.”

“They will make legends of us, Cregan Stark,” she whispered. “That I promise.”

And as the night wore on, with the fire roaring in the hearth and the joy of the wedding spreading throughout Winterfell, Cregan knew she was right. This day, this union, would be remembered long after both of them were gone. And the legends would speak of the dragon that brought fire to the North, and the Stark who stood beside her, unflinching and steadfast.

The cold air of Winterfell’s courtyard bit at Cregan’s cheeks, the chill seeping through even his thick furs as he stood with his arms crossed, eyeing the great dragon Vaetrix. Her crimson scales glinted in the pale northern light, each one like a shard of polished ruby set against the stark white backdrop of snow. Even at rest, her massive wings were tucked tight against her sides, a vast stretch of membrane that flickered like flame when she shifted, the tips of her talons sinking into the frozen earth.

To say Cregan Stark was a man comfortable on solid ground would have been an understatement. He was born of stone and ice, a wolf bound to the earth, as much a part of the North as the walls of Winterfell itself. But today, as he stood beside his wife, watching the dragon’s great form settle before them, he felt that comfort slip away, like snow melting beneath an unexpected spring sun.

She had offered—no, insisted—that he take to the skies with her, on the back of Vaetrix. Cregan had held his ground through worse. He had fought battles, endured the harshest winters, but none of that prepared him for this. He could handle swords and shields, but flying? That was a different beast entirely. Quite literally.

“Are you sure about this?” he asked, casting a skeptical glance at his wife, who stood beside him looking perfectly at ease, even amused.

Her silver-gold hair, tied back to keep it from whipping in the wind, gleamed in the cold sunlight. There was a mischievous glint in her violet eyes, and a faint smile played at her lips as she regarded him. “You’re not afraid of a little flight, are you, my lord?” she teased, her tone light but carrying just enough of a challenge to make Cregan’s jaw tighten.

He looked back at Vaetrix, the dragon’s head lowering to the ground with a snort that sent a puff of steam curling into the air. The dragon’s golden eyes—deep, intelligent, and unsettlingly aware—fixed on him with what he could only describe as amusement. As if the beast knew exactly what he was thinking.

“Afraid? No,” Cregan grumbled. “But I’d be a fool to not be cautious of flying on the back of a creature who could swallow me whole.”

She laughed then, a bright, musical sound that carried over the stillness of the courtyard. “Vaetrix isn’t interested in eating you. She’d much prefer a herd of sheep over a Northman. Too much wool, not enough meat.”

Cregan raised a brow. “Comforting.”

She placed a hand on his arm, her touch warm despite the cold. “Come, Cregan. You’ve fought in battles, faced down far worse than this. Flying will be nothing. Trust me.”

It wasn’t the flight that unnerved him, but the idea of relinquishing control. He was used to being on solid ground, where he could command his surroundings. The sky was unknown territory, one he had no desire to claim. But as he met her gaze, the playful challenge there mixed with something deeper—her faith in him, and perhaps a desire for him to share in her world. He couldn't refuse that.

With a deep breath, Cregan nodded. “Very well. I’ll fly with you. But if we fall, I’ll haunt you from the afterlife.”

Her smile broadened, and before he knew it, she was pulling him toward Vaetrix. The dragon lowered her massive form even further, folding her legs beneath her to allow them to mount. Up close, Cregan could truly appreciate just how enormous the beast was—her scales, tough and unyielding, were the size of his hand, and her wings, even at rest, stretched out like the sails of a great ship. Each breath she took seemed to rumble through the earth, and the heat radiating from her was enough to melt the snow in a wide circle around her.

He watched as his wife climbed effortlessly onto Vaetrix’s back, her movements fluid and graceful, as though this was second nature to her. It probably was. When she looked back at him, the challenge was still in her eyes. Cregan sighed, grumbled something under his breath about never being able to say no to her, and climbed up after her, though with significantly less grace.

Once he was seated behind her, his hands gripping the edge of the saddle far tighter than he’d ever admit, she glanced back over her shoulder, her smile still firmly in place. “Hold on, my lord.”

“I already am.”

“Good. You’ll want to hold on tighter.”

Cregan opened his mouth to ask what she meant, but before he could form the words, Vaetrix gave a mighty heave and pushed off the ground. Cregan’s stomach lurched as the world dropped away beneath them, the courtyard and the walls of Winterfell shrinking rapidly as the dragon’s powerful wings unfurled and beat against the sky.

He swore, loudly and without shame, as the icy wind whipped against his face, stinging his skin and making his eyes water. The ground, which he had spent his entire life firmly planted on, was suddenly nothing more than a distant blur of white and grey far below them. The sensation was like nothing he had ever experienced—wild, untethered, and completely out of his control.

His wife laughed, the sound carried back to him on the wind. “Are you alright back there, my wolf?”

Cregan, still clinging to the saddle for dear life, managed to mutter something that sounded vaguely like, “I’ll kill you for this.”

She only laughed harder.

As Vaetrix rose higher into the sky, her wings beating with a steady rhythm that shook the air around them, Cregan forced himself to breathe. Slowly, the initial shock gave way to something else—a sense of awe. The land stretched out beneath them in all directions, a vast expanse of snow-covered wilderness that seemed to go on forever. Winterfell looked impossibly small from up here, just a cluster of grey stones nestled against the white of the North.

The sky itself was a wonder—endless, clear, and so achingly blue that it made him forget, for a moment, the biting cold of the wind. Up here, the world was different, quieter, as though they had left the cares of the earth behind.

“This is what it’s like,” she said over her shoulder, her voice softer now, no longer teasing. “To be free in the sky.”

Cregan didn’t respond immediately, still adjusting to the sensation of being so far above everything he had ever known. But as he watched the vastness of the North unfold beneath them, he began to understand. Up here, there were no boundaries, no limits. It was just them, the wind, and the dragon’s wings.

“It’s…” he started, struggling to find the right word. “Incredible.”

She glanced back at him, her expression softening. “I knew you’d like it.”

“I didn’t say I liked it,” he shot back, though the grin tugging at the corner of his mouth betrayed him.

She smirked. “You’re smiling.”

“I’m cold,” he retorted, though he was no longer holding on to the saddle quite so tightly. In fact, as they soared above the snow-covered forests, he realized that his fear was ebbing, replaced by something closer to exhilaration. The wind roared in his ears, but instead of dreading it, he felt alive—more alive than he had in years.

Vaetrix let out a low rumble as if sensing her riders’ mood. The dragon's massive wings tilted slightly, adjusting their course, and Cregan felt the shift as they glided smoothly over the treetops. The ground below seemed distant now, almost irrelevant.

Cregan glanced down again, marveling at how small everything appeared. "I’m still not sure how you trust her to do this."

His wife’s voice was warm as she replied, “Vaetrix is my partner, not just a mount. She flies because I trust her, and because she trusts me. It’s not about control—it’s about the bond.”

He nodded slowly, her words sinking in. Perhaps that’s what made the Targaryens so different from anyone else—their bond with these creatures was deeper than a rider and a horse, deeper than any earthly connection. It was fire, blood, and something more.

Vaetrix’s wings beat steadily as they soared toward the horizon, and for the first time, Cregan let himself relax, loosening his grip just a little. He even allowed himself a small chuckle.

"Alright," he said, leaning in slightly toward her. "Maybe I don’t hate this as much as I thought."

She smiled, her laughter carried on the wind, and as they flew together—wolf and dragon—Cregan knew that he had just crossed a threshold. This, too, was part of the life he had chosen with her, part of the legend they were creating together.

And despite himself, he was beginning to enjoy it.

The chill of winter had wrapped itself around Winterfell like an old, familiar cloak, but inside the thick stone walls of the castle, the air was thick with heat and anticipation. The hearthfires burned fiercely, their flames casting flickering shadows on the ancient stones, but it wasn’t just the fire that made the air feel so stifling. It was the weight of the moment, the hush that had fallen over the great hall, the tense waiting, and the murmured prayers to both the Old Gods and the new.

Cregan Stark paced the floor just outside the chambers where his wife labored. His usually composed demeanor was gone, replaced by a restless energy that he couldn't shake. His boots scuffed against the flagstones with each turn, and though the men around him—his bannermen, his household retainers—watched him with a mixture of concern and amusement, no one dared to speak.

It wasn’t that Cregan feared what was happening behind the door. He had seen battles, endured the harshest winters, and ruled his people with a steady hand. But this—waiting for the birth of his first child—this was different. This was something far beyond his control, something that stirred a deep, primal worry in him.

He had been kept from the birthing chamber, of course, as was custom, but the muffled sounds of his wife’s labored breathing reached him even through the thick door. It was agonizing—knowing she was enduring such pain, and yet there was nothing he could do but wait.

One of his bannermen, Arnolf, an older man with a long, weathered face, stood beside him, watching the young lord with a hint of a smile. “My lord, pacing a trench in the stone won’t bring the babe any faster,” Arnolf said, his tone light despite the gravity of the situation.

Cregan stopped mid-step, shooting a half-hearted glare at his bannerman. “If I don’t keep moving, I’ll go mad.”

Arnolf chuckled softly, shaking his head. “Ah, the first child is always the hardest. You feel as though the world is on the edge of changing forever—and you’re right, it is. But trust me, my lord, it will all be worth it.”

Cregan nodded, though his jaw was still tight with worry. He knew the risks of childbirth, even for a woman as strong as his wife. She was no fragile southern lady—she was a dragon rider, fierce and unyielding—but still, childbirth had claimed queens and common women alike. He had never feared for her before, not when she flew on Vaetrix, not when she faced down the dangers of the North, but now...

Another sound, a sharp intake of breath from behind the door, sent Cregan’s heart racing again. He clenched his fists, resisting the urge to burst through and be by her side. He hated this helplessness. Hated that he could do nothing but listen.

“Cregan,” came a voice from the shadows. It was his half-sister, Sara, stepping forward, her dark hair pulled back from her face, her expression soft but commanding. “She’s strong. She’ll make it through this. You know she will.”

He looked at her, his eyes searching hers for reassurance. “I know. But it doesn’t stop the worry.”

Sara placed a hand on his arm, squeezing it gently. “It never does. But trust in her strength. She’s born of dragons, after all. And you’ll see your child soon enough.”

Before Cregan could respond, a cry pierced the air from beyond the door—a new, sharp cry that did not belong to his wife. It was the cry of an infant, high-pitched and insistent, as though the child had already inherited the fire of its mother’s blood.

Cregan froze, his heart thudding in his chest as the door creaked open, and the midwife stepped out, her apron bloodied but her face bright with a smile. “A son, my lord,” she said, her voice warm. “A strong, healthy boy.”

For a moment, Cregan couldn’t move. The words washed over him, sinking in slowly. A son. His son. He felt as though the ground beneath him shifted, like his world had just expanded in ways he hadn’t thought possible.

“A son,” he repeated, his voice almost reverent. He had dreamed of this moment—had imagined it a hundred times—but nothing had prepared him for the reality of it.

The midwife nodded. “Your wife wishes to see you. She’s tired, but well.”

Cregan didn’t wait for more. He strode through the door into the chamber, his heart still hammering in his chest. The room smelled of blood and sweat, but it was warm, almost stifling, and lit by the soft glow of candles. His eyes immediately found her—his wife—reclining in the bed, her silver-gold hair damp with sweat, but her face flushed with triumph. In her arms, bundled in soft furs, was their child.

She looked up as he entered, and the faintest smile touched her lips, though exhaustion lined her face. “Cregan,” she breathed, her voice soft but steady. “Come meet your son.”

He moved toward her slowly, as if in a dream, his eyes fixed on the small bundle in her arms. As he reached the bedside, she shifted slightly, lifting the child toward him.

Cregan gazed down at the infant—his son. The child’s skin was soft and pale, his tiny fists clenched tightly as he wailed, his little face scrunched in displeasure at being so new to the world. But what struck Cregan most was the shock of silver-gold hair atop the boy’s head, unmistakable, just like his mother’s.

“He’s perfect,” Cregan whispered, his voice thick with awe. He reached down, hesitantly at first, then more surely as he took his son in his arms. The weight of the child felt impossibly light, yet it was as though Cregan’s heart had just doubled in size.

His wife watched him, her violet eyes gleaming with warmth. “He has your hands,” she said softly, her voice touched with amusement. “Strong, like a Stark.”

Cregan chuckled, though his throat was tight. “And his mother’s hair. He’ll stand out here in the North.”

She smiled faintly. “Let them stare. He is both wolf and dragon. They’ll come to respect him for it.”

Cregan looked down at the boy again, his son, his heir. The child’s cries had quieted now, and he blinked up at his father with curious, unfocused eyes. Cregan could see it already—the strength, the fire that would burn within this boy. He was a Stark, but he was also more than that. He was part of a legacy that would shape the future of the North and beyond.

“He’s beautiful,” Cregan murmured, the weight of everything hitting him at once. The responsibility, the joy, the pride—it was overwhelming, but in the best possible way.

“He will be great,” his wife said quietly, her voice soft but filled with certainty. “I can feel it.”

Cregan nodded, leaning down to place a kiss on her forehead, his gratitude for her—for everything—too deep for words. “Thank you,” he whispered, his voice rough.

She smiled, though her eyelids were drooping with exhaustion. “We did this together.”

He stayed by her side as she drifted off to sleep, their son still cradled in his arms. As the night deepened outside Winterfell’s thick walls, Cregan knew that the world had indeed changed forever. The child in his arms was not just his son—he was the future of House Stark and House Targaryen, the bridge between ice and fire.

And as Cregan looked down at the tiny face peeking from the furs, he smiled—a smile that his bannermen had not seen since the wedding, a smile that would be remembered in the histories of the North, alongside this day, as the day the first dragon-blooded Stark was born.

The sun hung low in the sky, its orange glow turning the snow into a strange mix of fire and ice. Cregan Stark, now a bit grayer around the edges but still every bit the Lord of Winterfell, stood near the training yard watching his men practice their swordplay. His face, as usual, was etched in concentration, though every so often, his gaze flickered toward the godswood where his daughter had spent most of the afternoon.

He knew her well enough to sense when mischief was brewing, and today, there was something in the air that told him she was up to something. He just hadn’t quite put his finger on what.

It wasn’t long before his suspicions were confirmed. His daughter, all of ten years old but with the same silver-gold hair and fiery spirit as her mother, came bursting through the courtyard gates with something bundled in her arms. Cregan immediately recognized the familiar look of determination in her eyes—he’d seen that look before, mostly when his wife had her mind set on something impossible, like teaching him how to fly on a dragon without looking like he was going to throw up.

“Papa!” she called, her voice a mix of excitement and urgency as she half-skipped, half-ran toward him. “Papa, look what I found!”

Cregan raised an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued, though a part of him braced for whatever his daughter had gotten herself into this time. He folded his arms over his chest, his deep voice calm as he spoke. “What have you brought me this time, little one? A dragon egg, perhaps? Another wild idea about climbing the walls of Winterfell?”

She shook her head, a wide grin spreading across her face. “Better,” she declared, and with that, she opened her cloak to reveal a small, squirming ball of fur.

It took Cregan a moment to register what he was seeing. A direwolf pup—tiny, scruffy, and with impossibly large paws for its body—peered up at him from the folds of her cloak. Its wide, blue eyes blinked curiously, and its little tail wagged as though it had already made up its mind that this was where it belonged.

Cregan let out a deep sigh, the kind that comes from years of parenting and knowing exactly what was coming next. “Where did you find that?”

“In the woods by the godswood,” she answered cheerfully, holding the pup up as if presenting him with the greatest treasure the North had ever seen. “Isn’t he wonderful?”

The pup let out a small yip, clearly eager to be part of the conversation. Cregan eyed the creature with a mix of fondness and exasperation. The wolf looked like it had been born to cause chaos, and somehow, his daughter had already taken a shine to it. He could almost hear the arguments forming in her head.

“And what exactly do you expect to do with this… wolf?” he asked, trying to sound stern, though his resolve was already weakening at the sight of her beaming face.

“I want to keep him,” she said, her tone so matter-of-fact it was as if she had already made the decision for him. “He’s too little to survive on his own. And I’ve always wanted a wolf, Papa. You have one! Why can’t I?”

Cregan rubbed the back of his neck, fighting the smile that was threatening to break through. “I have a wolf because I’m the Lord of Winterfell, not because I found one wandering around the woods and decided to bring it home like a stray dog.”

His daughter’s eyes narrowed, and she tilted her head, giving him that look—one that made him feel as though he were about to be outwitted by a ten-year-old. “But you are the Lord of Winterfell, and that means you get to decide things like this, doesn’t it? You could say yes, right now.”

He sighed again. “That’s not exactly how—”

“Please, Papa?” she interrupted, stepping closer and cradling the pup against her chest, her eyes wide and pleading. “He won’t be any trouble. I’ll take care of him, I promise. I’ll feed him, and train him, and everything.”

Cregan glanced down at the pup, who seemed entirely unfazed by the conversation, content to nestle into his daughter’s arms. The little wolf let out another soft yip, as if to back up her case.

“Do you even know how to train a wolf?” Cregan asked, raising an eyebrow.

“I’ll learn!” she insisted, her excitement growing. “He’s smart, I can tell. And I’m smart too. We’ll figure it out together.”

Cregan stared at her, knowing full well that he had lost this battle before it even began. She had that same stubborn streak as her mother, that fire that wouldn’t be extinguished no matter how hard he tried to reason with her. And truth be told, he wasn’t entirely opposed to the idea of her having a wolf. A direwolf was part of the Stark legacy, after all. And though it was a bit earlier than he had planned, this felt… right.

He took a deep breath, looking from his daughter’s hopeful face to the pup in her arms. “Fine,” he said at last, his tone resigned but soft. “You can keep him.”

Her face lit up, and before he knew what was happening, she had thrown herself at him, wrapping her free arm around his waist in a tight hug. “Thank you, Papa! Thank you, thank you!”

Cregan chuckled, placing a hand on her head. “But you’ll be responsible for him, understand? That means feeding him, training him, and making sure he doesn’t tear through Winterfell like a wild beast.”

“I will, I promise!” she said, pulling back to beam at him, her eyes bright with joy.

The pup let out a soft whine and squirmed in her arms, wiggling until his head poked out from her cloak again. He gave Cregan a long, inquisitive look, his tiny tail wagging with uncontainable energy.

“I suppose we need to give him a name,” Cregan said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “What will you call him?”

His daughter thought for a moment, her brow furrowing in concentration. Then, with a grin, she said, “How about… Storm? Because I found him after that big storm last night.”

Cregan nodded, glancing down at the pup who was now chewing on the edge of his daughter’s cloak. “Storm it is, then. A fitting name for a troublemaker.”

As they turned to head back inside, the newly named Storm trotting happily at their heels, Cregan couldn’t help but smile. His daughter had her wolf, just as he had his. The pack was growing, and despite his earlier reluctance, he felt a deep sense of pride swell in his chest.

He leaned down to ruffle his daughter’s hair, his voice warm with affection. “You’ll do well with him, little one. Just don’t let him eat all my boots.”

She giggled, glancing down at Storm, who was already sniffing the ground with intense curiosity. “I’ll try, Papa. But no promises.”

Cregan chuckled, shaking his head. “That’s what I thought.”

The years had settled quietly over Winterfell, and though the seasons had come and gone, bringing with them both harsh winters and gentle springs, the castle remained the sturdy heart of the North. Cregan Stark, now older, with silver threading through his once dark hair and lines etched into his strong features, stood at the window of their chambers, looking out over the snow-covered courtyard. The sky was a soft grey, typical for this time of year, but the wind had stilled, leaving the world in a peaceful, almost serene silence.

Behind him, the familiar crackle of the hearthfire filled the room, its warmth seeping into the stone walls, casting a golden glow that softened the edges of everything. He could hear the gentle rustle of fabric as his wife moved about, though they no longer rushed through life the way they once had. These days, time was kinder, moving slower, allowing them to savor the quiet moments.

Cregan turned from the window, his gaze settling on her. She was seated in the large, cushioned chair by the fire, her silver-gold hair, now streaked with strands of white, falling loosely over her shoulders. Her beauty, undiminished by age, was not the fiery, untamed force it had been in their youth, but rather something more enduring, more graceful—a calm, steady flame that had warmed him for decades.

She looked up as she felt his eyes on her, her violet gaze meeting his, and a soft smile touched her lips. “What are you staring at, my wolf?” she asked, her voice still carrying that playful lilt, though it was quieter now, softened by the years they had shared.

Cregan smiled, crossing the room to her side. “Just thinking,” he replied, lowering himself into the chair beside her with a soft grunt. His joints weren’t quite what they used to be, but he still moved with the strength of a man who had led Winterfell for decades.

She raised an eyebrow, setting aside the book she had been reading. “You’ve always been a man of few words, but thinking? That’s dangerous.”

He chuckled, the sound deep and warm. “Dangerous for some, maybe. For me, it’s just remembering.”

Her smile deepened, and she leaned back in her chair, the firelight flickering in her eyes. “And what are you remembering, Cregan Stark?”

He reached over, taking her hand in his. Her fingers, though not as nimble as they once were, still fit perfectly in his. He traced the lines of her palm, thinking of all the years they had spent together—of the battles fought, the children raised, the moments of laughter and sorrow that had woven their lives into something greater than either of them could have imagined.

“I was thinking of the first time I saw you,” he said, his voice quiet. “When you rode into Winterfell on Vaetrix. I had never seen anything like you, and I was certain, in that moment, that my life was about to change.”

Her laugh was soft, more of a breath than a sound, but it filled the room. “I remember that day. You looked like you were trying very hard not to run for the hills.”

Cregan shook his head, grinning. “I wasn’t about to run. I was too busy trying to keep my mouth from falling open. You were this fiery, untouchable force, and I was just a man standing in your shadow.”

She squeezed his hand gently, her thumb brushing over the back of his knuckles. “You were never just a man, Cregan. Not to me.”

They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, the crackling of the fire filling the space between them. Cregan let his gaze wander around the room, settling on the small tokens of their life together—the furs draped over the bed, the carvings of direwolves that adorned the wooden posts, a tapestry that depicted both the wolf and the dragon entwined, a gift from one of their children.

“I never thought we’d come this far,” he said quietly, his voice almost wistful. “Through everything. Wars, winters… raising our children.”

She laughed again, this time with more warmth. “Oh, the children. They were more of a challenge than any war we faced, weren’t they?”

Cregan smiled, thinking of their brood—strong, stubborn, each with their own fire. Their son had grown into a man of great strength, a natural leader who now stood as Lord of Winterfell. Their daughter, with her direwolf by her side, had become a force in her own right, a woman who carried both the blood of wolves and dragons with equal pride.

“They were. But we managed.” He looked at her, his gaze softening. “We did well, didn’t we?”

She tilted her head, studying him with that knowing look she had always given him, the one that told him she saw right through him—through his walls, his defenses, straight to the heart of him. “We did better than well, my love,” she said softly. “We built something that will last long after we’re gone.”

He nodded, feeling a deep sense of contentment settle over him. She was right. The legacy they had created together, the family they had raised, would endure. House Stark and the blood of dragons would continue to thrive, long after their bones had returned to the cold ground of the North.

Cregan lifted her hand to his lips, brushing a kiss across her knuckles. “I’m glad it was with you,” he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. “I wouldn’t have wanted anyone else by my side.”

Her eyes shimmered with emotion, and she leaned forward, resting her forehead against his. “I know, Cregan,” she whispered back, her breath warm against his skin. “It’s always been us.”

They sat like that for a long while, the fire crackling softly beside them, the weight of the years they had shared resting lightly on their shoulders. They didn’t need to speak—everything that mattered had already been said.

Outside, the night deepened, the stars beginning to peek through the grey skies, but inside Winterfell, there was warmth, and love, and the quiet peace that only came with a life well-lived.

And in that moment, as they sat together, hand in hand, Cregan Stark knew that he had found everything he had ever needed—here, in the heart of Winterfell, with the woman who had brought fire to his life and warmth to his winter.

#house of the dragon #hotd x reader #hotd #hotd x y/n #hotd x you #cregan x you #cregan x y/n #cregan stark x reader #cregan x reader #cregan x #cregan stark #hotd cregan

740 notes · View notes

papiliotao · 2 years ago

Text

꒰ 𝒓𝒐𝒐𝒎𝒎𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒔 ✩࿐

pairings: alhaitham, kaveh, kazuha, lyney, scaramouche, and xiao x gn!reader (separate)

content: fluff, modern au, college au, the reader is a sleep-deprived student, correction: everyone in this fic is a sleep-deprived student, cuddling, reader is sick in scara’s, venti makes a cameo in kazuha’s part, reverse comfort in kaveh’s

summary: small scenarios with the genshin boys as your roommates! ♡

a/n: this has been sitting in my drafts for a while, so i decided to finally finish it up. i hope you enjoy!

₊˚ପ ALHAITHAM

Tonight, it feels like endless night ebbs and flows into the very core of your being, chilling you with fragments of a glacial atmosphere.

It’s cold.

Even with multiple blankets wrapped around you, you can’t help but shiver, shake like a vibrant autumn leaf in a passing zephyr. Winter is approaching, and unfortunately for you, you may have relished a little too much in the gilded threads of summer warmth that had graced the world a few months prior. For now, you’re unable to stand the gradual freeze that’s beginning to spread throughout your city.

Slumber is tempting. It lures you in, wrapping you in a blanket weaved of starlight and dreams. However, it’s all an illusion. In reality, you’re far from sleep. You know that there’s no way you’ll be able to pass the gateway into the oneiric realm. Not with the sensation of frostbite threatening to consume you whole.

Eventually, you decide to get up. You’re certain that you won’t be able to fall asleep, at least, not without more blankets, so you decide to make your way to Alhaitham’s room to ask if he has any spares.

Although you’d normally feel guilty for rousing someone from slumber, it’s not that late as of right now. Either way, you’re quite certain that your roommate is still wide awake, most likely losing himself amongst the yellowed pages of a verbose book. After all, he always seems to have his nose buried in a complex tome, filled with words that make your brain hurt.

Slowly, you drag yourself out from under the plush covers of your bed. The floorboards groan slightly as you stand, exhaling under the pressure of your footsteps. You make your way down a hallway drowned in shades of midnight, making your way towards the golden light seeping out into the corridor from under the cracks of a closed door.

The door to Alhaitham’s room.

You knock, the sound seemingly echoing down the walls of the hall, repeating in a chorus of onomatopoeia.

A few seconds pass before the door opens to reveal Alhaitham. Strands of silver hair messily frame his face, and yet as the aquamarine hues of his irises meet your gaze, you find that he’s just as dazzling as ever.

“Do you need something?” he asks, his voice as flat and monotonous as always. As usual, your roommate’s front doesn’t betray a single hint of emotion. Not even irritation.

You pause for a moment, still a little intimidated by Alhaitham. Although you’ve been living together for a while now, his apathetic demeanour can be slightly off-putting at times. Nonetheless, you eventually manage to steel your nerves.

“Yeah,” you say. The word comes tumbling out of your mouth clumsily. “Do you happen to have any extra blankets?”

Alhaitham pauses for a moment, seemingly deep in thought.

You hold your breath, hoping that he’ll say yes, and you’ll be able to get this over with.

However, he shakes his head, and you feel your heart drop, shattering into a thousand shards of fragmented ruby.

“Oh,” you sigh, trying your best to hide the dejected expression overtaking your features. “That’s okay. Sorry for bothering you.”

You turn away, ready to head back to your room, but Alhaitham’s voice stops you.

“I think it’s safe to presume you wanted a blanket because you were cold, right?”

It’s a rhetorical question, so you don’t bother to answer it. Instead, you freeze, becoming akin to a statue carved of pale blue ice.

“Then allow me to propose an alternate solution.”

You turn around, meeting Alhaitham’s eyes once more. Lakes of turquoise, typically devoid of emotion, are now filled with a particular spark. You can’t quite determine what it is, but there’s a subtle glimmer — barely visible, but it’s there.

“Why don’t you stay in my room for the night?”

Your eyes widen, and you feel your jaw drop. For a moment, you just stand there, absolutely still and dumbfounded.

Perhaps you had heard Alhaitham wrong. Or maybe your mind is playing tricks on you, making mirages materialize out of nothing. The blank expression painted over your roommate’s features certainly makes you think so.

“Excuse me?” you blink languidly, staring at Alhaitham as if he’ll disappear into thin air if you take your eyes off him.

“I said why don’t you stay in my room for the night?” he repeats nonchalantly, the evening chill seemingly intertwining itself into his tone. His gaze remains fixated on you.

Your mind blanks for a second, each intricate acrylic line of a composition painted over, leaving you with nothing but an empty canvas. As you stand still, a thousand scenarios seem to flash through your head, filling up the blank space with a myriad of thoughts — some pleasant and some unpleasant. However, you soon realize that you don’t have time to weigh all the pros and cons of your decision, as Alhaitham is staring at you intently, awaiting your answer.

“Sure,” you blurt out.

You’re not sure what compels you to accept his proposal. Perhaps it’s your longing for the comfort of shared warmth. Perhaps it’s a result of your inability to say no to others due to a fear of disappointing them. Or perhaps it’s because you’ve grown a lot closer to Alhaitham than you’d care to admit.

Although you’re still slightly intimidated by him, you’re certain that he’d never do anything to harm you. And there are even times where he shows he has your best interests in mind (despite the fact that you were initially under the impression that he cared little for others).

You’re snapped out of your trance of reminiscence as Alhaitham speaks once more.

“Alright,” he says, taking your hand and leading you over to his bed. His grip is firm — not suffocating, but at the same time, not so soft that the connection between the two of you would be easily severed.

Alhaitham’s touch sends butterflies, tinted a colour reminiscent of spring blossoms, dancing within the pit of your stomach. It’s enchanting, and at this rate, you’re not sure how you’ll be able to handle sleeping in the same bed as him.

He allows you to climb into bed first, tucking you in with an unexpected amount of care. You know Alhaitham’s not exactly the cold-hearted jerk many make him out to be, but you didn’t anticipate that he’d be this gentle, his touch akin to the caress of sunlight on a spring day.

After the man ensures that you’re cozy, he lies down beside you, embracing you. As he does so, you feel a wave of heat overwhelm you. To your relief, the frigidness that had once gnawed at your very soul is now gone, but unfortunately, you’re faced with a new problem.

Alhaitham’s actions have flustered you, and to your misfortune, it feels as though crimson embers of embarrassment are bursting into flames far too quickly for your liking.

You’ve solved one issue, but in turn, you’ve accidentally created another.

This is going to be a long night.

₊˚ପ KAVEH

It’s no secret that your roommate is a perfectionist.

Whenever his eyebrows knit up in a jumble of discontent and pools of liquid ruby tinged with sunsets glint with hints of frustration, it becomes obvious what’s going on. He’s spent too long trying to perfect yet another assignment. The bags that seem to perpetually line the undersides of his eyes are dark shadows — serving as an eternal reminder of the man’s exhaustion.

There are times where you find him hunched over his desk, teetering on a thin tightrope, walking a line between the waking world and a wonderland of dreams. Of course, he refuses to succumb to the temptations of a golden slumber time and time again, forcing himself to fixate on his projects until he’s finished and happy with the final product.

Today is one of those days. The cold light that leaks through the cracks beneath the door to Kaveh’s room seeps into the hallway, serving as a warning written in a display of molten opalescence.

Stark white. Cutting through the darkness of deep midnights with ease.

It’s jarring, and when you press your ear to the door and listen carefully, you manage to make out the sound of Kaveh muttering underneath his breath.

You know you have to do something. Now. Before your roommate decides to work himself into a stupor again.

You take a deep breath, inhaling night air reminiscent of the crystalline waters. It’s refreshing, and as you breathe out, a sense of tranquility washes over you.

Steeling yourself, you knock on Kaveh’s door, the sound seemingly reverberating through the corridor in a myriad of echoes.

“[Name]? Is that you?” he asks, his voice ringing out loudly, fragmenting and shattering the quiet ambience.

You hear the sounds of drawers opening and closing, papers rustling, and footsteps falling.

“There’s no point in hiding anything,” you tell your roommate, picturing the distress swirling like nebulae in his vibrant crimson eyes. “I know you’ve been working late again.”

The noises come to a halt, and peace returns to the late night atmosphere once more. Soon, the sound of soft footsteps fills your senses, gradually growing louder in a crescendo until you’re sure that Kaveh is right in front of the door.

Not a second later, it swings open to reveal a sleep-deprived Kaveh clad in pyjamas.

“Alright, I’ll admit it,” he sighs. “You caught me red-handed.”

Silence permeates your senses for a few seconds, but the illusion of stillness is quickly shattered as Kaveh breathes out a sigh.

“I just can’t seem to figure out this one last thing,” he groans, burying his head in his hands. “I seriously can’t take it anymore. It’s driving me insane.”

For a few seconds, his gaze remains averted, staring down at the wooden finish of his desk, tinted a subtle peach under the topaz shades of light spilling from Kaveh’s lamp. If you didn’t know any better, you would have sworn that he had fallen asleep. However, your eyes eventually meet hues of dulled rose, glittering with a faint spark concealed by exhaustion.

“You should rest,” you tell your roommate, cautiously placing a hand on his shoulder. To your relief, he doesn’t flinch or pull away when you touch him. He simply slumps and begins to stand up.

“I suppose you’re right,” he speaks slowly, his voice laced with resignation. “Maybe a short break will help me clear my mind.”

Kaveh walks over to his bed, brushing locks of sunshine away from his eyes. The mattress sinks like quicksand as he lies down and tucks himself under the covers, enveloping him in layers upon layers of plush comfort.

You turn away, switching Kaveh’s lamp off before you head back to the door. However, just as you’re about to leave, Kaveh calls your name.

“[Name],” Kaveh starts, his voice seemingly amplified by the abyssal midnight overtaking your surroundings.

You spin around, only to be met with the sight of Kaveh’s silhouette outlined against backdrops of navy and black, enveloping the world in curtains of phantasmagoric silk.

“Can you stay with me?” he asks. His voice trembles slightly, and he sounds sheepish — almost shy. “It’s just that, if I don’t have you around, I might convince myself to start working again.”

You freeze.

One second.

Two seconds.

Three seconds.

It takes three seconds for you to fully process Kaveh’s request, and when you do, you feel your heart skip a beat.

“I would be happy to.”

And with Kaveh’s permission, you climb under the covers of his bed with him. He wraps an arm around you. The position feels far too intimate for two roommates who harbour nothing more than platonic feelings for each other, but you decide that that’s a problem for future you to address.

For now, you decide to close your eyes and seek solace in a realm of breathtaking dreamscapes. Finding joy in each cotton candy cloud, each droplet of crystal rain, and each gilded leaf within a fantastical world found far away from reality.

And yet as you drift off to sleep, you find that there’s one thing in the waking world that has become far more tantalizing than anything your imagination could ever conjure: the warmth of Kaveh’s embrace.

₊˚ପ KAZUHA

Golden ribbons of warmth caress your face as you open your eyes to find yourself awake again. A wave of tranquility washes over you, weighing down your eyelids with a serene lullaby — an ode to quiet mornings spent in the solace of your home. You want nothing more than to stay in bed for a few more minutes, but you have classes.

Groggily, you stretch and then pick your phone up from where it’s sitting on your nightstand in order to check the time. The screen lights up with a cold radiance, a stark contrast to the gilded rays of the sun, as you turn it on.

And that’s when all hell breaks loose.

It’s 9:30 a.m., and you’ve already missed the start of your first class. You grimace internally, but you can’t dwell on your feelings for too long. After all, the longer you delay, the more you’ll miss.

You change in record time, pulling on a comfortable hoodie and jeans, grab a few of your belongings, and rush out the door.

The chilly autumn air brushes against your skin as you make your way to class, and the enticing fragrance of sap hits your nose, tantalizing you with a perfume that carries nostalgic memories. In the corners of your vision, you watch as leaves coloured shades of vivid crimson, marigold, and amber swirl in a waltz signaling the end of summer and the beginnings of harsher days. The scenery is beautiful, and if you weren’t in a panic, you would have stopped to admire it. However, you force yourself to ignore the scenes around you, continuing to focus on your primary objective.

When you arrive at the lecture hall, you’re panting. Simple oxygen feels like ambrosia to you, sweet and satisfying, refreshing in a way that it’s never been before. For a few moments, you stand outside the room and catch your breath. With each inhale and exhale, you get closer and closer to finding a rhythm until finally, you’re no longer gasping for air.

Quietly, you walk into class, trying your best to avoid disturbing anyone. Thankfully, nobody seems to notice as you take a seat near the back of the hall, settling down in your seat. Time passes slowly as class continues on, and it almost feels like universal laws operate differently within the small bubble of the room you’re currently sitting in. Everything seems to take an eternity, and you can’t do anything except watch the minutes tick by, each addition of one moving you closer and closer to the end of a mundane lecture.

It feels like the moment will never arrive, but eventually, you’re dismissed. Thankfully, there’s quite a while until you have to go to your next class, so you decide to wander around for a while.

For a while, you stroll aimlessly, eventually finding yourself back outdoors once more. Now, you can truly savour the beauty of your surroundings, relish in the splendor of each flaming leaf that drifts by and each rivulet of tepid light that pierces through the crystalline coolness of the autumn air.

You stand there for a while, simply enjoying a break after a hectic morning.

Until something else — or rather, someone else — catches your eye.

Under the shade of a maple tree stands your roommate, basking in the glory of a crimson waterfall composed entirely of maple leaves dancing gracefully until they hit the ground. His platinum hair is tied back in its usual ponytail, each strand of silken moonlight swaying as a gentle zephyr blows by, and his eyes are a shade of ruby that flawlessly mimics the autumnal landscape.

He’s as breathtaking as ever.

But before you can admire him for long, hues of starglitter and rose petals meet your gaze, and a small smile dances across his lips. Without a word, he walks over to you.

“Running into you here is certainly a pleasant surprise,” he says, his grin widening.

“You say that as if we don’t already live together,” you remark, laughing a little.

He chuckles, the sound as light and airy as autumn winds swirling leaves around in a finale of farewells. The lighthearted atmosphere is truly euphoric, especially after such a stressful morning.

Of course, good things never last for long.

“Good morning, Kazuha. Good morning, [name]. How’s my favourite couple?” a cheery voice asks. In the edges of your vision, you see a figure donning twin braids of sapphire and turquoise approaching. It’s Venti — one of Kazuha’s friends.

Both you and Kazuha freeze, a frigidity crystallizing the ambience into icy fractals. And yet at the same time, you can feel your face beginning to heat up.

Couple?

Before you can clear up the misunderstanding, Kazuha speaks.

“Good morning to you too, Venti,” he says. “We’re doing well, but I’m afraid you’re mistaken.” Kazuha subtly averts his gaze, staring at the ground, but you swear you can see a blush dawning on his cheeks in shades of sunset. “[Name] and I aren’t a couple.”

“Oh really?” Venti asks teasingly, giggling in a manner that sounds almost maniacal, “then why are they wearing your hoodie?”

You look down, and sure enough, the top you chose to wear today was Kazuha’s. He had allowed you to borrow it a few days ago when you complained about the chilly autumn weather, and you had forgotten to return it. Apparently you were in such a rush this morning that you pulled it on without a second thought.

“It was an accident,” you blurt out, wanting to clear up the misconception as soon as possible. “I woke up late, and I was in a hurry.”

“Uh huh,” Venti nods, his tone laced with sarcasm. “Sure. I believe you.”

“No, seriously. We’re not a couple,” you reiterate, sighing as Venti laughs quietly.

“Whatever you say,” he says. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have somewhere to be. I’ll leave you two lovebirds alone.”

Without another word, Venti skips off, jubilantly humming to himself. And now, you’re alone with Kazuha, left to deal with the awkward aftermath of Venti’s assumptions.

“That was… interesting,” you remark.

Kazuha nods.

“I hope you didn’t feel too uncomfortable,” he says, smiling at you gently, a light blush still coating his cheeks. Although you’ll never admit it out loud, you find him quite cute when he’s flustered. Venti would have a field day if he knew you found your roommate so adorable.

“I’m fine,” you reassure Kazuha, “and I’ll return your hoodie to you as soon as possible,” you add.

However, to your surprise, Kazuha shakes his head.

“You can keep it if you want,” he tells you.

“Really?”

Kazuha chuckles.

“Really,” he assures you. “As long as you don’t mind being mistaken for a couple, that is. I know I certainly don’t.”

₊˚ପ LYNEY

“Lyney, if I remember correctly, you told me you perform magic as a sort of side hustle, right?” you ask your roommate.

The question comes from out of the blue, but you want nothing more than to learn about the man you’ve recently grown to be infatuated with. Besides, he’ll probably think nothing of it; it’s only natural for someone to want to get to know their roommate.

“Yeah, I guess you’d be right,” he responds, averting his gaze from his phone and glancing at you. “Although I’d say it’s more about putting on a good show than the money.”

Lilac hues make your mind go blank as you make eye contact, enchanting you with oceans full of stardust and sunshine alike. Lilac. It’s a colour you’ve come to adore. Before meeting Lyney, it was a shade known to you as the border between night and day, mixed into compositions of dawning sunrises and fading sunsets. But now, it’s synonymous with magic and mystery, and it’s all thanks to your charming roommate.

“Oh, I see,” you mutter.

You’re surprised that your voice doesn’t end up shaking. Simply looking into Lyney’s eyes is causing your heart to beat rapidly, igniting crimson sparks of giddiness and glee with each thump.

Perhaps this is what it feels like to be in love.

“Why do you ask?” Lyney inquires, tilting his head slightly. “Are you interested in seeing a trick?”

Lyney flashes a charming smile at you — a smile embodying the enigmatic charms of various twilight hues. He reaches his hand up to brush the few strands of dusky hair that had fallen in front of his eyes away, and somehow, the subtle action makes you find him all the more attractive.

“I would love to,” you say, “if it wouldn’t be too much trouble.”

You wait with bated breath, feeling the whole world still as you await Lyney’s response. The carefree atmosphere solidifies into something denser, heavier, as tension begins to build.

“Well, I usually don’t do private shows like this, especially not out of the blue,” he remarks.

For a second, you feel your smile fall.

“But since it’s you, I can try,” Lyney says.

A grins dances upon your lips once more, and the elation from before comes back in full force. Unbridled adoration swirls through your heart, taking down each and every glacial barrier in a roaring tempest of rose and vermillion. With every day that passes, you feel yourself falling deeper and deeper into the clutches of romantic fantasies.

“Thank you.”

With that, Lyney rushes to his room. A few seconds later, he returns with some props and a top hat, midnight black adorned with velvety scarlet and magenta detailing, perched upon his head.

He performs for you, and it’s absolutely enamouring. His prowess is incredible, and it’s clear he’s enjoying putting on a show for you. The entire performance is interesting, captivating. However, it’s Lyney’s last act that stands out to you most of all.

“I’m sure you’re wondering what my grand finale will be,” Lyney announces with a fiery sort of flamboyance. It’s amusing because you’re the only audience member, but at the same time, slightly endearing.

He takes his hat off, reaching his hand into the void within. Slowly, he pulls something out.

The verdant green of a stem lined with thorns appears first. Then you catch sight of luscious leaves. And lastly, the delicate petals of a rose enter your line of vision. They’re tinted a vibrant purple, reminiscent of sparkling amethysts.

“For you,” Lyney says, handing you the flower.

Upon closer examination, you note that the rose is unblemished. It’s perfect. You wonder if Lyney put any thought into picking out this particular flower, but you brush the thought off. Embers of newly-kindled feelings of romance brush against your skin.

You’re flustered.

Flustered beyond measure.

Awkwardly, you take the rose from Lyney, your heart fluttering as your fingers accidentally bump against his. His skin is soft, and his touch is tantalizing. You wouldn’t mind feeling his hand in yours.

“Thank you,” you manage to whisper, averting your gaze and looking anywhere but into the very lavender irises that will never fail to enchant you. “It’s stunning.”

“A stunning flower for a stunning person,” Lyney says. The sincerity lacing his tone doesn’t go unnoticed, and you have to stop yourself from melting on the spot. “Do you know what the purple rose represents?”

You shake your head as sudden curiosity and cupid’s final arrow strike simultaneously.

He leans in, moving so close that you can feel strands of silken platinum tickle your skin. A soft breath lightly brushes against your ear as he opens his mouth to speak.

“Love at first sight.”

₊˚ପ SCARAMOUCHE

Weak beams of winter light filter through the curtains of the window beside your bed, illuminating your room with a radiance tinted pale blue. With a foggy mind, you make your way over to the window, leaving the warmth and comfort of your covers to do so. The chill pokes at your skin like a thousand miniature needles of ice, and yet you continue on.

As soon as velvety veils of fabric fall away from glass panes, glacial sunshine spills through. The panoramic scenery that welcomes you is a glazed-over landscape, thick blankets of pure white sprinkled with glimmers of stardust. Even the branches of the tall evergreen trees surrounding your home are dusted with powdered opal. Nothing is free from the frigid caress of winter, and you’re suddenly reminded of this fact as you start coughing.

Oh. You’re sick.

You blink slowly, an unbearable headache making itself known by jumbling your thoughts into nothing more than incoherence. Begrudgingly, you decide to lie back down, pulling a few blankets over you in order to stay warm. However, the layer of plush protection isn’t enough to shield you, as shivers continue to wrack your body.

For a while, you just lie there, huddled and trying to cling onto any remaining heat, any remaining comfort. You close your eyes, feeling absolutely helpless against the coolness that threatens to permeate the very essence of your being. The world around you begins to become distant as grogginess and discomfort plague you, but soon enough, you’re snapped out of your haze.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

The last thing you want to do is answer the door.

“[Name]? Are you in there?” your roommate, Scaramouche, calls. As usual, irritation laces his tone, but there’s something new this time. Maybe you’re delusional, but it almost sounds like concern.

“Yeah. Come in,” you manage to respond.

Your voice is unsurprisingly hoarse, and you have to strain in order to be heard. However, in the end, it seems that you were just loud enough because seconds later, the door opens with a click. In its wake, a man with hair reminiscent of desolate midnights walks in. Soon enough, you find your gaze meeting hues of deep twilight fading into a paler shade of periwinkle akin to the colour of forget-me-nots.

“Wow, you look awful,” Scaramouche remarks bluntly, examining you.

You feel yourself shrink under his gaze.

“Can you not?” you shoot back, mustering the strength to glare at him between coughs and sniffles. “I'm kind of dying here.”

Scaramouche scoffs.

“Fine. I’ll leave you alone,” he says, turning away and walking out the door.

Once again, silence envelops the atmosphere, ebbing and flowing throughout the greys and blues of an early winter morning in soundless waves. Although you’re thankful for the serene ambience, you also feel awfully lonely now that your roommate is gone. All you can do now is stare blankly at the wall in front of you and entertain yourself with your own thoughts.

Time becomes a blur, and yet it stretches on as well. It feels like you’re trapped in a sort of limbo — suspended in a mundane reality without any sort of respite or the slightest idea of when you’ll finally find your refuge.

That is, until you hear the hinges of the door creak once more.

Scaramouche is back.

You look up. To your surprise, the glints of starlight that dance within his indigo eyes show a rare sort of softness, and he’s carrying a bowl of soup.

Without a word, he sets the bowl on your bedside table, staring at you expectantly.

“Is that for me?” you ask.

Scaramouche groans, rolling his eyes.

“Who did you think it was for?” he says, averting his gaze.

A small smile dances across your lips. Although your roommate doesn’t want to show that he cares for you, you’re beginning to realize that he’s looking out for you in his own way.

“Thank you,” you respond. However, just as you’re about to reach for the soup, you’re attacked by another fit of coughs.

Scaramouche’s eyes fixate on you once more, and he sighs.

“Do you need me to spoon feed you or something?” Although it sounds like he’s mocking you, you can tell he’s serious to some extent.

“Do you want to feed me?” you say, trying to muster a playful tone. Even though you’re sick, teasing Scaramouche is as fun as ever.

“I will if it means you’ll shut up,” he mutters, taking the bowl carefully and scooping up a spoon of the soup.

With caution and a shocking amount of attentiveness, he lifts the spoon to your lips, and you open your mouth. To your surprise, the soup is actually quite tasty. You didn't expect your roommate to be such a good cook.

“How was it?” Scaramouche asks after you swallow. Not a hint of emotion shows through the veils of apathy he’s crafted as he awaits your response.

“It was amazing,” you remark genuinely. “I’d love to try some more of your cooking, and… thanks for taking care of me.”

Scaramouche looks away, but as he does, you notice a colour reminiscent of delicate rose petals rising to his cheeks, tinting porcelain akin to the snow outside a vivid shade.

“Don’t mention it.”

₊˚ପ XIAO

Procrastination is every student’s worst enemy, and you’re no different.

You had spent the past few days putting off your latest assignments and neglecting your studies more than you’d care to admit. It’s not that you didn’t want to work and study, but every time you tried to start on something, you’d feel put off by the copious amounts of labour you’d have to put in. And unfortunately, now you’re reaping the consequences of the seeds you had previously sowed.

It’s currently 1 a.m., and all you can see outside the window is ebony fragmented by the occasional streetlight or polychromatic star. Your eyelids are beginning to droop of their own volition, but you force yourself to stay awake. You have something important due later today, and unfortunately, you’ve barely even started on it.

So you have no choice but to continue on, allowing yourself to fall into the treacherous grasp of sleep-deprivation all because of your poor decision-making skills.

The minutes seem to count down all too quickly as you toil, yet at the same time, the mundane assignment makes every second feel like an eon. It’s a paradoxical distortion of the universe’s concepts, but it’s something you’ve grown far too accustomed to in your time as a student. Panic and hopelessness set in more and more with every tick of the clock, and eventually, you lose all sense of time, burying yourself in a pile of work.

The next time you look up, you notice that it’s well past your first scheduled break time, and you’re absolutely exhausted.

You stand up, stretching and relishing the sensation of being able to move your aching limbs after hours of sitting in the same position, mulling over boring assignments. However, your momentary respite is ruined, as it isn’t long before the creaking of a door pulls you out from the temporary euphoria that had taken over your mind.

“Hey,” a calm voice utters. It’s melodic like a beautiful song you wouldn’t mind hearing on repeat. “Are you alright?”

You turn around, and as expected you’re met with the sight of your roommate. Honeyed eyes filled with a dandelion warmth shimmer when met with the dim incandescent glow of your desk lamp, and locks of seafoam frame his pale face. Even though his hair is messy, and there are visible bags under his eyes, Xiao looks as stunning as ever.

“I’m fine,” you say, miraculously stringing together a couple of words despite your exhaustion.

“You’ve been up all night,” Xiao observes, glancing at your messy desk — a testament to the few hours you had been chipping away at your work. Somehow in that time, you’ve managed to make it look as though some sort of wild tempest had ravaged your room.

“You’re saying that as if you don’t stay up all the time,” you shoot back.

You flinch. Your tone is harsh and dripping with venom, but you hadn’t meant your words in that way. They were from a place of concern, but it seems that Xiao understands.

“That’s true,” he remarks, “but I’m not as keen on working myself to death as you are.”

A second passes.

Then you realized that you may have gotten a little bit carried away due to your momentary burst of energy — a rush of exhilaration prompted by a sense of urgency.

“Oh.”

Xiao sighs.

“You need a break,” he says, hesitantly walking over to you and intertwining your fingers with his.

His actions surprise you. Most of the time, Xiao avoids touch, but now, he’s holding your hand. The tepidness of Xiao’s skin on yours causes lucidity to wash over you. Suddenly, you feel more aware of your surroundings.

Your roommate pulls you out the door, exiting your dorm swiftly before you can refuse. Truthfully, you wouldn’t have denied him his demand anyway. Although Xiao seems like a tough person on the outside, his heart is forged of silvery moonbeams — glittering lights that illuminate the world with a subtle phosphorescence, not quite as glaring as rays of sunlight, but equally as bright, nonetheless. As a result, you’ve grown to develop a soft spot for him.

When you exit the building, the first thing you notice is the crisp, fresh air. After staying cooped up in your room for so long, it’s relieving to breathe in the liquified stardrops dissolved within the night atmosphere. Your head clears up nearly instantaneously, and finally, you feel a sense of peace wash over you.

“Feeling better?” Xiao asks, noticing the change in your expression immediately.

He’s usually not the brightest when it comes to interpreting emotions, so your prior distress must have been extremely obvious. Nonetheless, you brush off your embarrassment and swallow your pride, nodding to reassure Xiao that yes, this is helping, and yes, you’d like to stay here with him for a while longer.

Xiao seems to get what you’re trying to convey, so he continues walking, leading you under the gold-lacquered light of the lamps lining the path before you. Right now, it feels as though your hearts are connected, and for once, you’re under the impression that Xiao’s let down his walls.

You know that once your midnight escapades cease, you’ll have to face a world of pain, but perhaps it’s worth it.

After all, exhaustion is temporary, but maybe, just maybe, this lavender haze will endure forevermore.

thank you for reading!! if you liked this, i’d really appreciate it if you reblogged this fic.

#r.archives *ೃ༄#favoniuslibrary #astronetwrk #alhaitham x reader #kaveh x reader #kazuha x reader #lyney x reader #scaramouche x reader #wanderer x reader #xiao x reader #genshin impact x reader #genshin x reader #genshin fanfic #genshin imagines #genshin headcanons #genshin x you #genshin fluff

2K notes · View notes

anonymousewrites · 11 days ago

Text

Nobody's Soldier (Book 1) Chapter Fifteen

Found Family! Supernatural x Teen! Reader

Chapter Fifteen: Angels Begone

Summary: (Y/N) faces the risks of the hunting life.

Mouse Note: I'm back!

“Shit—Dean, they’re not opening their eyes,” said Sam, looking into the backseat as Dean sped down the road.

“Kid? (Y/N)? Wake up,” he said, twisting slightly.

(Y/N) lay unconscious on the impala, blood staining their shirt. They didn’t move or react to his words.

“We need to stich that,” said Dean. He grimaced as his shoulder ached. “And reset my shoulder.” It was dislocated from the hit against the wall.

“We need them to open their eyes,” said Sam, reaching back to shake (Y/N). “They haven’t moved since we jumped out the window.” He looked at Dean. “What the hell happened?”

“They stabbed the demon to get him off me,” said Dean. “He managed to stab them back.” He huffed. “And then we lost the magic knife.”

“Saving your life,” pointed out Sam as they pulled into the motel. His stomach twisted as he ducked out of the car and opened the backseat. (Y/N) saved Dean’s life, and now theirs was at risk. Sam pulled them out and carried them inside.

“Disinfect them,” said Dean, grabbing a bottle and tossing to him. Alcohol was their only option. Meanwhile, he grabbed a needle and thread.

Sam poured alcohol over their wound, and (Y/N) jerked awake at the burning sensation.

“No!”

They thrashed against Sam’s hold, screaming at the feeling of someone holding them down.

“Dean!” shouted Sam, and Dean moved over. “(Y/N), it’s us! (Y/N)!”

(Y/N) blinked, and their eyes widened as they saw Sam and Dean. “We—What—Ow—” They looked down at their side where the bloody slash bled.

“We need to sew it,” said Sam. “It’s gonna hurt.”

“Sam, set my shoulder and I’ll do it,” said Dean, spitting blood into a cup.

“Hold tight,” said Sam. “Don’t move. You’re gonna be okay.” He smiled shakily and looked towards Dean.

While he relocated Dean’s shoulder, (Y/N) stared at their wound. They took deep breaths, in and out, and just stared at the blood trickling down their skin in tiny rivulets. They felt the sting of alcohol, and they were frozen—they had actually nearly died. They had been so close to being killed. It hit (Y/N) in a rush, and they let out a shaky breath.

“Okay, kid, brace yourself,” said Dean, needle and thread in hand.

“We’ve got to close it,” said Sam.

(Y/N) nodded jerkily. “Do it.” They weren’t going to die here, no way no way nowaytheyweren’tdyingtodaynononono

They let out a low hiss as the needle punctured their skin and pulled the skin around their wound. The pull continued rhythmically, and (Y/N)’s hand curled around their necklace. They held the spirit quartz tightly, taking deep breaths and focusing the cool sensation of the crystal in their hand.

“Done,” said Dean.

(Y/N) let out a long breath. “Thank you,” they said, voice hoarse.

“You stabbed a bigwig demon for me,” said Dean. “Least I could do.” He nudged (Y/N)’s shoulder slightly.

“Who the hell even was that demon?” said Sam, now working on his own wounds.

“No one good,” said Dean. “We gotta find Anna.”

“She left with Ruby,” said (Y/N), standing, wincing, and going to their bag. Gingerly, they knelt and grabbed another shirt. They threw it on so they were no longer walking around bloody.

“You sure that’s okay?” said Dean, narrowing his eyes.

“Ruby’s got her,” said Sam.

“Yeah? ‘Cause it’s pretty likely she used us to find radio girl and then brought that demon in to kill us,” said Dean.

(Y/N) hoped not. They’d told Anna they’d find her.

“She took Anna to keep her safe. Right, (Y/N)?” said Sam.

“I hope so,” said (Y/N).

“Why hasn’t she called to tell us where she is?” asked Dean, rolling his relocated shoulder and deciding to press an icepack to it.

“Because that demon is probably watching us right now,” said Sam. “Waiting to follow us right back to Anna again. That’s why he let us go.”

“You call that letting us go?” said Dean.

“Felt more like ‘wanted us dead,’ ” said (Y/N).

“Killing us would have been no problem to that thing,” said Sam. “If he wanted us dead, we would be. That’s why for now, we just gotta lay low and wait for Ruby to contact us.”

“Yeah? How’s she gonna do that?” said Dean.

Sam just shrugged. Even he didn’t know.

Dean turned from the mirror and looked at Sam. “Why do you trust her so much?” Not a dig—a direct question.

Sam sighed. “I told you.”

Dean shook his head. “You gotta do better than that. Hey, I’m not trying to pick a fight here.”

“Sam…if we’re going to have to work with her on this and trust her, we gotta know why we should,” said (Y/N) quietly.

Sam was silent. Slowly, he nodded. “I trust her…because she saved my life. And she took a body that was about to be taken off life support, so she’s not stealing anyone’s life. And she…offered to teach me, help me defeat Lilith.”

“So…what did she did teach?” asked Dean slowly. He sat down on one of the beds.

“Well, the first thing I learned—” he scoffed “—I’m a crappy student. I struggled to learn how to exorcize demons, I was missing you, but Ruby, she—” Sam paused, glanced at (Y/N), and cleared his throat “—she helped.”

Oh, gross, ew, thought (Y/N), nose wrinkling. With a demon? Pretty, sure. But a demon?

“Too much information,” grumbled Dean.

“That was nothing,” said Sam.

“Still too much,” said (Y/N).

“Do you want me to come clean or not?” said Sam.

Dean held up his hands. “Alright. Brain-stabbing-imagery aside, so far all you’ve told us about this manipulative bitch who, uh, screwed you, played mind games with you, and did everything in the book to get you to go bad.”

“Yeah, well, there’s more to the story,” said Sam.

“Just skip any nudity,” said Dean.

“Or references to it,” added (Y/N).

“Pretty soon…after that, I put together some signs, omens,” explained Sam.

“Saying what?” asked Dean.

“Lilith was in town,” said Sam. “And I wanted to strike her first. Ruby didn’t think I was ready, but I went in anyways, even though she knew that if I died then, there would be no more chance to get Lilith. When I went to the house Lilith was staying, it was a trap. A demon attacked, and Ruby saved me. And I exorcised my first demon.” Sam shook his head. “Ruby came back for me. Whatever you have to say, she saved me. More than that, she got through to me. What she said to me…Dean, it’s what you would have said. If it wasn’t for her, I wouldn’t be here.”

Silence descended as Dean and (Y/N) finished listening to his story. Sam shifted, glancing at his hands as they processed.

Knock.

All three looked up in alarm at the door.

“Housekeeping!” called a voice.

“Not now,” replied Dean.

“Sir, I’ve got clean towels!” called the woman again.

Dean groaned, walked to the door, and opened it. “Couldn’t you just leave ‘em at the door?”

The woman pushed her way in, shoving towels into Dean’s hands. She pulled the curtains of the motel room closed. She went directly to Sam and held out a piece of paper. “I’m at this address,” she said.

“I’m sorry, what?” said Sam.

“Go now. Go through the bathroom window. Don’t stop, don’t take your car, don’t pass go,” said the woman—Ruby, (Y/N) suspected. “There are demons in the hallway and in the parking lot.”

“Ruby?” said Sam, eyes widening.

“Okay, yes, so I’m possessing this maid for a hot minute. Sue me,” said Ruby, rolling her eyes.

“What about—”

“Coma girl?” said Ruby. “Slowly rotting on the floor at the cabin with Anna. So I’ve got to hurry back. See you when you get there. Go!” Without another word, she headed out the door and closed it behind her.

Dean blinked, and (Y/N) tilted their head.

“I guess she contacted us,” they said.

Dean, Sam, and (Y/N) tramped through the woods over branches and leaves until they came upon a cabin. Ruby, back in “her” body, opened the door and let them in.

“Glad you could make it,” she said.

“Yeah, thanks,” said Sam.

Anna sat up straighter as she saw them.

“Are you okay?” asked (Y/N), looking at her.

“Yeah. I think so,” said Anna. She reached out and touched (Y/N)’s hand. “Are you?”

“I think so,” said (Y/N), smiling tentatively.

Anna nodded, smiled, and looked at Sam and Dean. “Ruby saved my life.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard she does that,” said Dean. He looked at Ruby. “I guess, uh…you know…”

“What?” said Ruby, crossing her arms defensively.

“I guess I owe you for Sam,” said Dean. “And I just wanna—” he cleared his throat awkwardly “—you know…”

“Don’t strain yourself,” said Ruby, rolling her eyes.

“Okay then,” said Dean. “Is the moment over? Good, cause that was awkward.”

“Hey, Sam, do you think it’d be safe to make a quick call just to tell my parents I’m okay?” asked Anna. “They must be completely freaked.”

Right. They hadn’t gotten the chance to tell her. (Y/N)’s gaze fell to the ground. Sam and Dean glanced at each other.

“Um…” Sam swallowed.

“What?” said Anna, voice shaky as she heard his tone and apprehension.

“Anna…” Sam sat down beside her as Dean avoided her gaze. “Your parents.”

“What about them?” asked Anna nervously.

“Look, I’m sorry,” said Sam.

“No, they’re not…” said Anna, shaking her head.

“Anna, I’m sorry,” said Sam softly.

Tears quivered in Anna’s eyes, and she sobbed, burying her head in her hands. “Why is this happening to me?!”

“We don’t know,” said (Y/N). They sat down on Anna’s other side and hesitated before patting her back. They knew nothing could tear this grief away.

Anna gasped and sat up. Looking around herself warily, she took a shuddering breath. “They’re coming!”

Electricity crackled, and the lights blinked on and off in the cabin.

“Backroom!” said Ruby, leading them back.

(Y/N) grabbed Anna’s hand and pulled her back with them. They pushed her back while Dean and Sam grabbed weapons. Ruby dug through the bag for her knife and glared up at them.

“Where’s the knife?!”

Sam grimaced.

“Uh, about that…” said Dean.

“You’re kidding,” exclaimed Ruby.

(Y/N) winced. Losing it meant losing the ability to kill demons easily.

“Hey, don’t look at us,” said Dean, looking at Sam.

“Thanks a lot,” grumbled Sam.

“Great, just peachy,” said Ruby. “Impeccable timing, guys, really.”

The wind howled through the cabin, and (Y/N) felt the electricity in the air crackle. They picked up a weapon and narrowed their eyes. The door bust open, and the hunters and demon tensed. To everyone’s surprise, Castiel and Uriel walked into the room. Ruby narrowed her eyes, and (Y/N) didn’t relax upon seeing Uriel. His presence could not be a good sign.

“Please tell me you’re here to help,” said Dean, looking to Castiel for explanation. “We’ve been having demon issues all day.”

“Well, I can see that,” said Uriel, looking disdainfully at Ruby. That appeared to be his constant state of existence. “You want to explain why you have that stain in the room?”

Dean and Sam exchanged looks.

“We’re here for Anna,” said Castiel.

“Here for her, like here for her?” said Dean, furrowing his brow.

“Stop talking,” said Uriel. “Give her to us.”

“What are you going to do to her?” snapped (Y/N). Uriel’s presence meant the possibility of death, and they weren’t going to send Anna to her death.

“We have orders,” said Uriel, the cold look in his eyes the equivalent of a glare for the “put together, logical, inhuman” angel.

“She has to die,” said Castiel.

“What?” said (Y/N), straightening. No way. Anna hadn’t done anything wrong; she didn’t deserve to die.

“You want Anna? Why?” questioned Sam.

“Out of the way,” ordered Uriel, stepping forward.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” said Dean, moving in front of the path to the backroom. “Okay, I know she’s wiretapping your angel chats or whatever, but it’s no reason to gank her.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll kill her gently,” said Uriel. His grin made (Y/N)’s stomach turn.

“You are such dicks,” they snapped. “Heartless.”

“As a matter of fact, we are,” said Castiel, no trace of a joke. “And?”

“And Anna’s an innocent girl,” said Sam forcefully.

Castiel’s gaze softened ever-so-slightly. He shook his head. “She is far from innocent.”

Dean furrowed his brow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means she’s worse than this abomination you’ve been screwing,” said Uriel, casting a disgusted look at Ruby. “Now give us the girl.”

Dean looked at Sam and (Y/N). Neither’s gaze wavered, resolute.

“Sorry,” said Dean. “Get yourself another one. Try JDate.”

“Who’s gonna stop us?” said Uriel. “You three? Or this demon whore?”

He grabbed Ruby’s jacket and tossed her into a wall. She hit her head and slumped to the ground. She scrambled to her feet, but Uriel grabbed her by the neck. Dean hit him, and Uriel spun on him. Castiel moved forward, and Sam and (Y/N) moved between him and the backroom. Sam lunged, and Castiel easily moved him away. He didn’t attack outright, but the force of his block caused Sam to stumble back. (Y/N) stood between Castiel and the door.

“Don’t hurt her,” they said. “She just want to be left alone.”

“It must be done,” said Castiel, reaching two fingers up.

(Y/N) remembered the effects of that and moved back. Their back was against the door, and their hand pressed it closed. “Anna, if there’s a window, run!”

Castiel pressed two fingers to their forehead, and (Y/N) felt tired—stay away, stay awake, stay awake—Castiel furrowed his brow.

Ba-boom!

A blinding light flashed through the cabin. The white brightness caused everyone to shut their eyes tightly. Thunder crashed with a roar, and the angels jerked at the force of the power. Their bodies were thrown back and disappeared in thin air. The cabin shook and steadied itself. The light faded. The shattered lightbulbs swung above them. (Y/N) let out a breath and sank to the floor in front of the door.

“What the…” Dean trailed off.

(Y/N) pushed themself to their feet and opened the door of the backroom, eyes wide with worry for Anna.

“Anna?” they said.

Anna looked up from the bathroom sink she leaned over. Blood stained the counter beneath her fingers. Her eyes were wide and wild, and (Y/N) followed her gaze. In the mirror, painted in blood, was a sigil.

Taglist:

@snowy-violet

@girgal73

@neenieweenie

@yummycement

@pain-in-the-ashe

@w0mank1sser

@taeswolfie

@yappydoo

@demonic-insomniac

@aew-regression-cove

@grippledee-galaxy

@lemmejustreadman

@coffeecloud135

@star-maker-rain-dancer

@introvertathome

@trashcannotbealive

@iloveeveryoneyoureamazing

@dmitrytherat

@paastaboi

@kaz-2y5-spn

@mxvoid26

39 notes · View notes

book--brackets · 11 months ago

Text

The Scholomance by Naomi Novik (2020-2022)

A Deadly Education is set at Scholomance, a school for the magically gifted where failure means certain death (for real) — until one girl, El, begins to unlock its many secrets. There are no teachers, no holidays, and no friendships, save strategic ones. Survival is more important than any letter grade, for the school won’t allow its students to leave until they graduate… or die! The rules are deceptively simple: Don’t walk the halls alone. And beware of the monsters who lurk everywhere. El is uniquely prepared for the school’s dangers. She may be without allies, but she possesses a dark power strong enough to level mountains and wipe out millions. It would be easy enough for El to defeat the monsters that prowl the school. The problem? Her powerful dark magic might also kill all the other students.

Fablehaven by Brandon Mull (2006-2010)

For centuries, mystical creatures of all description were gathered to a hidden refuge called Fablehaven to prevent their extinction. The sanctuary is one of the last strongholds of true magic. Enchanting? Absolutely. Exciting? You bet. Safe? Well, actually, quite the opposite...

Kendra and her brother, Seth, have no idea their grandfather is the current caretaker of Fablehaven. Inside the gated woods, ancient laws keep order among greedy trolls, mischievous satyrs, plotting witches, spiteful imps, and jealous fairies. However, when the rules get broken, powerful forces of evil are unleashed, forcing Kendra and Seth to face the greatest challenge of their lives, to save their family, Fablehaven, and perhaps even the world.

Ranger's Apprentice by John Flanagan (2004-2011)

They have always scared him in the past--the Rangers, with their dark cloaksand shadowy ways. The villagers believe the Rangers practice magic that makes them invisible to ordinary people. And now 15-year-old Will, always small for his age, has been chosen as a Ranger's apprentice. What he doesn't yet realize is that the Rangers are the protectors of the kingdom. Highly trained in the skills of battle and surveillance, they fight the battles before the battles reach the people. And as Will is about to learn, there is a large battle brewing. The exiled Morgarath, Lord of the Mountains of Rain and Night, is gathering his forces for an attack on the kingdom. This time, he will not be denied. . . .

Ruby Red Trilogy by Kerstin Geir (2009-2010)

Sixteen-year-old Gwen lives with her extended - and rather eccentric - family in an exclusive London neighborhood. In spite of her ancestors' peculiar history, she's had a relatively normal life so far. The time-traveling gene that runs like a secret thread through the female half of the family is supposed to have skipped over Gwen, so she hasn't been introduced to "the mysteries," and can spend her time hanging out with her best friend, Lesley. It comes as an unwelcome surprise when she starts taking sudden, uncontrolled leaps into the past.

She's totally unprepared for time travel, not to mention all that comes with it: fancy clothes, archaic manners, a mysterious secret society, and Gideon, her time-traveling counterpart. He's obnoxious, a know-it-all, and possibly the best-looking guy she's seen in any century...

The Books of Bayern by Shannon Hale (2003-2009)

She was born with her eyes closed and a word on her tongue, a word she could not taste.

Her name was Anidori-Kiladra Talianna Isilee, Crown Princess of Kildenree, and she spent the first years of her life listening to her aunt’s stories and learning the language of the birds, especially the swans. And when she was older, she watched as a colt was born, and she heard the first word on his tongue, his name, Falada.

Hex Hall by Rachel Hawkins (2010-2013)

Three years ago, Sophie Mercer discovered that she was a witch. It's gotten her into a few scrapes. Her non-gifted mother has been as supportive as possible, consulting Sophie's estranged father—an elusive European warlock—only when necessary. But when Sophie attracts too much human attention for a prom-night spell gone horribly wrong, it's her dad who decides her punishment: exile to Hex Hall, an isolated reform school for wayward Prodigium, a.k.a. witches, faeries, and shapeshifters.

By the end of her first day among fellow freak-teens, Sophie has quite a scorecard: three powerful enemies who look like supermodels, a futile crush on a gorgeous warlock, a creepy tag-along ghost, and a new roommate who happens to be the most hated person and only vampire student on campus. Worse, Sophie soon learns that a mysterious predator has been attacking students, and her only friend is the number-one suspect.

As a series of blood-curdling mysteries starts to converge, Sophie prepares for the biggest threat of all: an ancient secret society determined to destroy all Prodigium, especially her.

Fables by Bill Willingham (2002-2015)

When a savage creature known only as the Adversary conquered the fabled lands of legends and fairy tales, all of the infamous inhabitants of folklore were forced into exile. Disguised among the ""mundys,"" their name for normal citizens of modern-day New York, these magical characters created their own secret society that they call Fabletown.

From their exclusive luxury apartment buildings on Manhattan's Upper West Side, these creatures of legend must fight for their survival in the new world.

Dragonriders of Pern by Anne McCaffrey (1968-2018)

On a beautiful world called Pern, an ancient way of life is about to come under attack from a myth that is all too real. Lessa is an outcast survivor--her parents murdered, her birthright stolen--a strong young woman who has never stopped dreaming of revenge. But when an ancient threat to Pern reemerges, Lessa will rise--upon the back of a great dragon with whom she shares a telepathic bond more intimate than any human connection. Together, dragon and rider will fly . . . and Pern will be changed forever.

Thursday Next by Jasper Fforde (2001-present)

England is a virtual police state where an aunt can get lost (literally) in a Wordsworth poem and forging Byronic verse is a punishable offense. All this is business as usual for Thursday Next, renowned Special Operative in literary detection. But when someone begins kidnapping characters from works of literature and plucks Jane Eyre from the pages of Bront 's novel, Thursday is faced with the challenge of her career.

The Locked Tomb by Tamsyn Muir (2019-present)

The Emperor needs necromancers.

The Ninth Necromancer needs a swordswoman.

Gideon has a sword, some dirty magazines, and no more time for undead nonsense.

Brought up by unfriendly, ossifying nuns, ancient retainers, and countless skeletons, Gideon is ready to abandon a life of servitude and an afterlife as a reanimated corpse. She packs up her sword, her shoes, and her dirty magazines, and prepares to launch her daring escape. But her childhood nemesis won't set her free without a service.

Harrowhark Nonagesimus, Reverend Daughter of the Ninth House and bone witch extraordinaire, has been summoned into action. The Emperor has invited the heirs to each of his loyal Houses to a deadly trial of wits and skill. If Harrowhark succeeds she will be become an immortal, all-powerful servant of the Resurrection, but no necromancer can ascend without their cavalier. Without Gideon's sword, Harrow will fail, and the Ninth House will die.

Of course, some things are better left dead.

#best fantasy book #poll #the scholomance #fablehaven #ranger’s apprentice #ruby red trilogy #the books of bayern #hex hall #fables #dragonriders of pern #thursday next #the locked tomb

125 notes · View notes

raayllum · 6 months ago

Text

An interesting thread in S7 that I noticed:

You are destroyed by the things you create.

The first time we see this kind of thread (at least I think, I might've missed something) is with Kpp'Ar and Viren in season 6. Kpp'Ar takes Viren on as his "most eager student" and teaches him much in the ways of dark magic, even eventually handing over the position of High Mage. And even once acquiring said position, Viren betrays him in order to take the Staff of Ziard, citing:

Then you have Viren being destroyed and creating the exact circumstances he didn't want. In corrupting Lux Aurea, he expelled the Sunfire elves, leading to Karim's increasing fanaticism, power struggle, and usage of Sol Regem. This led indirectly to Sol Regem bringing Viren's worst nightmare down upon Katolis.

We see this more directly with Aaravos as well, as he created Sir Sparklepuff and had Avizandum specifically summoned back from the dead in S7, both of which have a hand in his demise:

This also ties into Aaravos' desire to destroy the Cosmic Order, as they created the circumstances that led to his anger in killing Leola, and therefore his violence and great machinations:

This "you are destroyed/defeated by what you create" is also one of the things that won me over when theorizing about S7, as I thought that if Callum used dark magic to defeat Aaravos fully (rip Rayla's positive character development theorized there too), while it might have felt a bit thematically muddied, would've had a great layer of irony: Aaravos, being imprisoned/defeated by the very thing he created. Close, but no cigar!

Then, for the core protagonists, to a certain degree we have this theme with Viren and Claudia. Viren realizes his horror at what Claudia has become, as well as the path that he's pushed and led her down by example. This doesn't literally destroy him, but it does emotionally devastate him, and does end up destroying their relationship in a lot of ways.

Even Claudia gets a bit of this, as she stabs her mother in the back—a daughter killing her own mother—just as Soren stabbed Viren in 3x09. Children killing their own parents, even as illusions, fits the theme, don't you think?

Ezran also gets interwoven into this idea in a few interesting ways in season 7. In creating the circumstances that led to Ezran being king, and thereby creating the child king and his rage, Runaan could've become a victim of it, and indeed nearly was (7x01, 7x02).

The second way this could come to a head for Ezran is Project Ruby Fire, though we'll have to wait for future seasons. While the project is his and Aanya's brainchild to keep Katolis (Evrkynd now?) safe and safe from the threat of dragons in the future, it's unlikely that these weapons of destruction will stay unused, and could possibly lead to devastation and loss in their kingdoms and/or of their friends (Zym).

Last but not least, we have Callum and Rayla. While not a literal destruction (but close to), they were prepared to sacrifice everything for one another. Callum's death would've made Rayla an assassin, hardening her heart further than it already is; on the other side of things, Callum became a mage and a dark mage because of her (2x07, 5x08): "If you love her, you'll be the you who can save her," even if that means demanding she'd become the her who can kill him, and save him / the world from a fate worse than death.

At the same time, Callum only begins doing the dark magic spell because he trusts Rayla to be his safety net. I can see solid arguments for whether she would've actually gone through with it on either side, but it led to Callum re-corrupting himself and opening himself up to Aaravos' possession in the future either way.

Like with Ezran and Project Ruby Fire, I expect this plot thread to be more of a beat in Arc 3 / future seasons, but am still deeply interested to see how it may all come to pass - and how there could be more consequences (the Nova Blade?) even from trying to do good.

#tdp #the dragon prince #tdp meta #s7 spoilers #s7 #multi #analysis #analysis series #parallels #the gang's all here

57 notes · View notes

pu55yluvr666 · 7 months ago

Text

DIAL DRUNK || Tennedy

By the time Kennedy had made it safely to her room, she expected to be sobering up a little. But there was no such luck, and instead she found herself with the same bottle she had been cuddling in the quad. “SHHHH PerCY YoU ‘aVE to beeee quiet or yOU’lL wake ROOOBY.” She whisper hisses… to Ruby as she shuts her door (not before staring longingly across the hall). Her body slides against her door frame, groaning as Ruby comes to nuzzle against her.

You would hope when you’re drunk like this someone would take your phone from you to stop you from saying something stupid, or even worse doing something stupid. Kennedy had no such luck. She hesitates on their text thread, the night coming back to her in a blur. She can’t sleep like this, her mind swirling with thoughts, her body feeling weirdly foreign to herself.

[Teddy 🥛] hi

the minute she hits send she wants to fling her phone across the room… but instead she finds herself typing again

[Teddy 🥛] aer you awake?

@teddy-visi0n

#⤑teddy #para #tennedy

58 notes · View notes

masterqwertster · 3 months ago

Note

I feel Green 2 and Purple 3 would go well together paired with the Ruby Hells au involving Ashton, FCG, and Laudna. Maybe after Ashton's revived? Just a suggestion

Didn't use the quotes, but definitely got the feelings. Green 2. "You're safe here, I promise." Purple 3. "I don't know how to repay you."

The diamond placed upon his chest shatters into dust, threaded through with divine golden light. It sinks down past clothing, past skin, into a chest they hope will move again, a heart they hope to restart.

There is a heartbeat in which nothing happens. A time that teeters between relieved joy and bitter disappointment.

And then the world quakes, the floor cracking as loose items fall from the shelves to shatter and break upon the floor. The thunk of traps in the manor being set off barely audible over the rumble of earth. Pure instinct warns of something large coming up through the ground. The golden glyphs and sigils inscribed for the resurrection turn purple and silver with a dusting of points of light. There’s something in the smokey effervescence now wafting off the ritual circle that is not meant to be seen by mortal eyes, comprehended by mortal minds.

Ashton takes a new, gasping breath.

The other powers that have invaded the ritual seem to flow into him with the air, but don’t leave with it on the exhale. The purple and silver starscape swirls in the glass implant for another breath before fading to his usual flickering rainbow lights. His body trembles and rattles against the ground with restored life.

“Ashton!”

It’s a cry that falls from all of their lips, though only Fresh Cut Grass and Laudna move all the way forward to his side. Ashton rolls on the ground and groans, limbs trembling and eyes remaining shut, as his two oldest friends among Bells Hells fuss over him.

“Shh, shh. You’re okay. You’re alright. You’re here,” Laudna chants as she does her best to guide Ashton’s head into her lap. Not an easy thing with her twig-like arms and their heavy everything, but they get there.

“You’re here,” he mumbles into her skirts.

“We’re all here,” Fresh Cut Grass reassures them, healing spilling from his hand upon their shoulder.

“What?”

Ashton cracks his eyes open, and there they are: the rest of Bells Hells, sniffling and smiling. At him.

“Welcome back,” Orym says.

And fuck, Ashton just might cry too. He’s not alone this time. They didn’t leave him.

“The fuck are you all still doing here?” Ashton chokes out. They don’t know what else to say. ‘Thank you’ isn’t enough. And to be vulnerable– it’s too much right now, when it feels like another kindness just might shatter them, leaving nothing but an emotional wreck.

“We’re waiting for our friend to keep adventuring with us,” Fearne innocently replies, squatting down to pat his thigh and apply some more healing.

Ashton shudders at the touch, the healing, the care. How the fuck did they fall in with people who give a fuck like this?

It wasn’t exactly a surprise to wake to Laudna and FCG here at his side. They have given and taken enough from each other to reach that place where the score is only tracked when you’re feeling petty or need a big favor. And those two have been just as lonely and abandoned as Ashton, clinging to him and each other so that they’d have someone there.

But the others? They had their little group from before, Orym, Fearne, and Imogen. Fuck, only Chetney didn’t even have a fucking home and at least a little family to return when the adventure’s over. The give and take between them and Ashton has barely begun, seeing as it’s just over a month since they first met. How the fuck is he gonna repay them for sticking around so hard they brought him back from the dead?

[You don’t owe us anything, darlin’. Just be here, with us,] Imogen whispers into their mind, pushing soothing feelings into their head. It sparks a faint memory of sunshine on a porch and larger arms cradling their soft body in a hug. Ashton doesn’t know if the memory is his or hers.

The fussing over Ashton only increases as his tears escape his control. Touches that hurt and heal, soothing and aching as they hold him. He wants to pull away, he wants to burrow in. He never wants this to stop.

Gods, is this what real love is?

Ashton’s not sure, ‘cause fuck knows they don’t know what love really is. But they hope to fuck this is it. Because they have it, and it’s worth it (and maybe they can keep it. maybe).

#mq&a #color quotes prompt #MQfic #MQ AU machine #ruby hells au #ashton greymoore #bells hells

12 notes · View notes

uncreative-cryptid · 7 months ago

Text

that long ass essay i promised to write regarding the quartz, symbolism, and my oc valerian.

so valerian is both complicated and not complicated but a lot of his symbolism lies within the idea of aura quartz and how it's made, what color, and what that is mean to do in the world of metaphysics.

the first important thing to note is this:

metaphysical vibrations. in the world of wuwa, everything is based off sound, and in some circles, the metaphysical also focus on the vibrations of everything - as everything in the world has vibrations (consider this like .. everything has a waveform, essentially, but only resonators have the ability to feel and sense these vibrations/waveforms/echoes/ect.)

second thing:

aura quartz is man made, it is not naturally occurring by any means beyond the base crystal. in order to create it, the quartz is exposed to extremely high temperatures and then exposed to varying amounts of metals in order for it to gain that aura - often with silver or gold.

depending on who you're talking to or the general opinion, the fact aura quartz is not 'natural' (so therefore has no history to tie to the spirit), can turn a lot of people away from using aura quartz for anything.

however, there is one more thing to keep in mind:

aura quartz is usually made with a clear crystal as the base. clear crystals are thought to be the strongest of the crystals, as it's whole meaning is amplification of power, clarity, and the way it is meant to absorb negative energies. a cleansing for the soul, if you would.

many of valerian's moves and forte are based on these quartz.

"Man Made" is in reference to the way Aura Quartz is created. valerian's history with his family is barely a few threads at best these days, his parents considering him their 'prodigal son', but he cannot deny their tough treatment of him when he was younger hasn't impacted his entire personality and how he now seeks to rectify all his wrongs. they were the fire and the metal, but he was the clear quartz who came out the otherside. he was man made.

Blood of the Ruby Aura

symbolizes strength and passion and protects the heart from emotional negativity.

An Aura of Flame

symbolises transformation, harmony, and stability.

Song of the Aqua Aura

symbolizes tranquility and connection and communication. it is also a spiritual protector, meant to help cleanse and protect the soul from negativity.

Aura of the Sun

this gem is meant to symbolize: joy/happiness, creativity/inspiration, and protection/strength. generally speaking, this is also meant to promote the emotional wellbeing.

Kaleidoscope

what i love about kaleidoscopes is the fact that generally speaking, it's a pattern of fractals. fractals, mathematically, go on and on and on forever, and it's interesting.

what these mean to valerian and how they relate to him:

ruby aura quartz: valerian protects his heart deeply, not only is he passionate about what he does, but he's usually a person who wears his heart on his sleeve. unfortunately, due to past events, this has changed and he keeps himself quite guarded ... but he wants to continue to keep people safe.

flame aura quartz: as it stands, valerian is in a state of transformation, seeking to harmonize with the world around him and accept all his own flaws and traumas no matter how difficult it has been.

aqua aura quartz: for valerian, this is meant to symbolize his own sense of tranquility as he continues to look for solace in the world, and the coloration to him is also important; between skies and oceans, the aqua aura reminds him there is more beyond that of the ends of the beach. it gives him a sense of peace to know that he is apart of this world, no matter how small, no matter how insignificant it feels; he is the blue in the ocean.

sunshine aura quartz: just like the warm rays of the sun, the idea of sunshine aura is meant to promote this warm and comfortable feeling. valerian does not believe himself to deserve happiness for what he has done, but he seeks to accept himself and all that has happened to be able to accept his happiness.

the kaleidoscope: valerian is under the belief that everything in intertwined, and that when you 'zoom in' or 'zoom out' in your perspective, it's just repeating patterns, and sometimes twisting the fractals allows you to see something a little different than before. art and life imitate each other, it is all one in the same.

valerian is a lot of things, but most importantly he's still human with flaws and troubles and trying to find things in the world that makes him feel more at ease. when it comes down to his character, the kaleidoscope represents the many different colors in his life, a stained glass pattern, and the meaning he will draw from these things. it is chaotic and reflected back in on itself into patterns that change when you turn it around.

i like to think the crystals represent both his past and his present, he is passionate and full of love and kindness and joy, but he is full of sorrow and anger and pain, too. and full of emotion, he seeks to realign constantly.

overall, i feel that valerian is both a reflection of myself and the world he is in. the many colors and crystals can mean a lot of things, and simultaneously mean absolutely nothing.

in short:

valerian is a product of his creation, man made; but the meaning he draws from this is his alone to decide, be it that because he is 'man made' he is not truly something considered helpful or true, or if that the metal exterior that turns an otherwise ordinary crystal into something beautiful is worth it's use anyway.

we are a product of the things around us, but meaning is what we choose to make it, and what colors we choose to see, and even how the pattern is reflected. we might not be able to choose the point the kaleidoscope starts at, but we can change it at any time.

valerian will eventually learn this, will eventually come to terms with the fact he holds 2 civilian deaths and 1 resonator death on his hands due to overclocking. he will come to understand he can change the way this pattern shows. hell, he'll eventually even learn he can pop the glass out and change the colors. but that takes time and understanding that healing is not linear and cannot always be through one singular thing.

and still, these crystals dont just mean one thing, they can mean anything, it is all about how you choose to interpret the messages and feelings you get. dont let the insane ramblings of one internet creature dictate what you should and should not derive from the meanings and symbolisms presented to you. what you draw is ultimately a reflection of myself, yourself, and the environments that made us.

draw whatever conclusion you want from these crystals and what you think it may mean in reference to valerian, cause i would genuinely love to hear what people think these could mean and what feelings they draw from these things. art is collective and i am nothing if not a dragon hoarding all the things.

#wuwa oc #wuwa #valerian #this was long and yappy #i love yapping about my oc and his symbolism

17 notes · View notes

blaiddle · 8 months ago

Text

I haven't felt much like stitching this year, so this is the only one I've completed. It's been a hard year and it's just gonna get worst.

However, it is my favorite city and story of FFXIV. Shadowbringers holds a deep place in my heart, carved in memories and friendships.

Stay safe everyone. Design is by Ruby Red Thread Design on Etsy.

#cross stitch #video games #ffxiv #amaurot #shadowbringers #final fantasy #final fantasy xiv #ff14 #remember

18 notes · View notes

rwby-encrusted-blog · 1 year ago

Note

So I will say it would might be hard but what about Harriet as the Rusted Knight stand in. Spending years dealing with guilt and horror of her willing to nuke a city just because she was told too. She could call the Lighting Trailer or something.

(Fun fact! When initially thinking about the major plot threads for the Sharc AU, I was actually going to have Harriet fall into the Ever After, find the time fruit and become the Juniper of the Sharc Universe. I have since decided against that, and feel safe sharing it.)

Blake: My Gods! It's the-

The Galvanic Squall: You kids have been getting up to a lot, huh?

Blake: Y- Yeah? Wait, how do you know we've been up to stuff?

Yang: Have you been watching us or-

The Galvanic Squall: That was one of the things I was meant to do, among all the other-

The Woman wrenches her face mask down while pulling off her goggles and hood.

Harriet Bree stood before them, her face wrinkled with old scars covering her face and ears, her hair pulled back into a mess of cable-like dreads, all streaked with dull gray and Electric Yellow.

Harriet: A Shit that Ironwood was ordering us to do- What the fuck happened!

Ruby: HARRIET?

Harriet: Yes! HELLO! I've been stuck here for-Fucking-ever!

Harriet: I mean, fuck I lost count after about the second month here, but I've been looking for- look, what was the last thing that happened to you?

RWBY: *Share worried looks*

Harriet: Okay, I get it, I'm in rough shape, just answer, alright!?

Weiss: uhm ... We only woke up here a day ago. before getting here, We evicted Atlas and Mantle to Vacuo using the Staff of Creation.

Harriet: Uh huh, Caused Atlas to sink, I'm aware.

Blake: Cinder Fall and one of her Cronies followed us into the In-between, and made us fall.

Harriet: Yep. I was Running Civies to the exit because Flame Girl and Polendina were fighting.

Yang: We all got knocked down here, obviously, and Salem got the Relic, but we know she doesn't have the maiden powers.

Harriet: Well. That doesn't sound great.

Ruby: Well, Neo, 'Cinder's Crony' fell with us. She hates my guts and ... It ... isn't good. Penny died. For real this time, no rebuilding, no recovering she's just ... gone.

Harriet: ... Oh. I- I uh.

Harriet: Wow. That's- I'm sorry. I know you two were close- she would never shut up- Er, Stop talking about you.

Ruby: We've all lost people. We can't sit around feeling sorry for ourselves. You Didn't.

_WBY: *look worriedly between each other and Ruby, who doesn't notice*

Harriet: Yeah, Well, I did my best to. Hell, I figured out how to dye my hair, gave me something to do while I waited.

Harriet: Also if you see a technicolor Cat, Don't Trust it. A couple kids Ran through years back and uh ... I couldn't find them. They just disappeared. If that Girl hadn't poisoned me I'd be certain they were just delusions.

Blake: A Girl? Was her name Alyx?

Harriet: *Squinting Suspiciously at Blake* ... How'd you know that?

Yang: It's a Book. The Girl that Fell Through the World. It's a classic!

Weiss: But there was only Alyx in the Story.

Harriet: The girl I met had a Brother. Lewis, and he was a lot more nervous and forward-thinking. And a hell of a lot more level headed. Lewis could stub his toe on a rock and he'd apologize to it. Alyx would stub her toe and make a guillotine for whatever tripped her up.

Blake: It sounds like we have a lot to talk about. Uh, do you have a place to stay or ...

Harriet: Yeah, I've got a cottage, let's move out.

Weiss: Well I'm glad you're not angry at us.

Harriet: Well, if it means anything ... I think you did the right thing standing up to the General. I know I made a mistake listening to him. *She beings walking*

Harriet: Come on, we might make it before sundown.

#rwby #ruby rose #yang xiao long #weiss schnee #blake belladonna #harriet bree #the galvanic squall #alternate rusted knight #rwby au

36 notes · View notes

novaursa · 10 months ago

Text

Chasing the Inferno

- Summary: It was during Rhaenyra’s and Laenor’s wedding feast, that the king noticed something he was blind to for far too long.

- Pairing: targ!reader/Harwin Strong

This whole work is inspired by this brilliant anonymous ask:

- Note: reader is referred to as Y/N, has striking resemblance to her late grandmother Alyssa and is younger sister of Rhaenyra. These events happen after The Flames We Hide. To read all the chapters in chronological order, visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top.

- Rating: Explicit 18+

- Word count: 3 532

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff

The evening air carries the scents of roasted meats, spiced wine, and fresh flowers into the grand hall, mingling with the vibrant sounds of revelry. The hall is a living tapestry of silks, banners, and candlelight, casting everything in hues of crimson and gold. A sea of finely dressed lords and ladies flows beneath the arched ceiling, the thrumming heart of the grand wedding feast of Rhaenyra Targaryen and Laenor Velaryon.

You arrive with the grace and splendor expected of a Targaryen princess, a vision that commands the attention of every eye that lands on you. The dress you wear is a rich deep plum, the color of ripened plums at dusk, lined with golden thread that shimmers in the light. The sleeves are long and bell-shaped, flowing with each movement, while the bodice is tightly laced with intricate embroidery of dragons in flight. Around your neck, a delicate chain bears a pendant of a dragon curled around a glittering ruby—a gift from your father. Your silver hair is braided in intricate patterns, falling down your back with hints of shimmering ribbons intertwined through each strand.

You sit beside Rhaenyra at the high table, your twin sister glowing with happiness under her finely woven veil. She leans toward you with a playful smirk. “I see you’ve decided to steal the attention for yourself tonight, Y/N. Not even the newlywed princess is safe from your charms.”

You laugh softly, returning her smirk. “It’s not stealing, dearest sister, merely borrowing for the evening.” Your eyes flick toward the bustling crowd, scanning the faces, seeking a particular one even as you engage in idle conversation.

You find him across the hall—Ser Harwin Strong, the Breakbones, the man who has captured your heart in ways you would never openly admit. His broad shoulders and easy smile cut a striking figure amidst the revelers. He leans against a pillar, eyes fixed on you with a heat that makes your pulse quicken. Even from here, you can feel the intensity of his gaze, the unspoken challenge in those dark eyes. A smirk pulls at your lips. Tonight is not just about celebrating your sister’s marriage—it is a dance, a game of fire and shadow that you and Harwin have played many times before.

As the feast progresses, the lords and ladies rise from their seats, drawn to the center of the hall where the dancing begins. You stand, gracefully gliding down the steps, the train of your gown trailing like liquid night behind you. Many lords vie for your attention, each more eager than the last to have the honor of a dance with the daughter of the King.

You indulge them—one by one, offering your hand with a practiced smile that promises nothing but amusement. Lord Beesbury twirls you first, his steps light but unremarkable. Lord Tyrell is next, his flattery sweet yet forgettable. Each time the music swells, you shift, gliding seamlessly into the arms of another suitor, all while casting sly glances over your shoulder to see if Harwin is watching.

And he is. His eyes never leave you, following every step, every spin, the set of his jaw tightening each time you turn away just as he moves closer. You can feel his impatience building like a storm, the tension of the game heightening with every dance.

Finally, after what feels like endless teasing, you find yourself caught in a whirl of movement, spinning until you are only steps away from him. Harwin’s expression is a mix of hunger and frustration as he makes his move to claim you at last.

But just as his hand reaches for yours, you slip away, turning instead into the arms of a young knight from the Westerlands, offering him a dazzling smile that is only for show. “My, Ser Harwin, are you growing weary of this dance already?” you tease, your voice lilting as you catch his gaze. You can see the fire in his eyes, a silent vow that he will not let you slip away so easily next time.

When the dance ends, the Westerlander knight bows low, eyes filled with admiration as he releases you. And as you turn, Harwin is there—closer than before, a step ahead of any other. This time, you do not pull away when his hand grasps yours, his grip firm and warm, sending a shiver down your spine. His voice is low, rough with suppressed desire, as he murmurs into your ear. “Do you truly believe you can keep running from me, Y/N?”

You tilt your head, lips curving into a smirk as you meet his gaze fully, violet and brown heat clashing. “Run, Ser Harwin? I am only leading the chase.”

Without giving him the satisfaction of a response, you spin away from him, the hem of your dress sweeping across the floor as you are swallowed back into the crowd. You glance back over your shoulder just long enough to catch the frustration in his expression before disappearing into the throng of lords and ladies once more. Harwin will catch you like he always does—of that you have no doubt. The thrill is in making him work for it.

But for now, the game continues, and you savor every moment of it.

The night is young, and so are you—dragon-blooded and bold, playing with fire and reveling in the heat that comes with it.

The music swells, a lively tune that fills the hall with mirth and energy, but it does little to settle the unease that creeps into King Viserys’ chest. Seated at the high table, he holds a goblet of wine, though he has barely touched it. His gaze drifts from one side of the room to the other, watching the mingling guests, the lords and ladies spinning in intricate dances. Yet his eyes keep returning to the center of the hall, where Rhaenyra and Daemon move together with a fluid grace that borders on impropriety.

His brow furrows as he watches them—his daughter and his brother. The distance between them is too narrow, the smiles exchanged too familiar. Even now, after all these years, Viserys cannot fully discern what lies behind those shared glances. His hand tightens on the armrest of his seat, his knuckles whitening with the effort to maintain composure. The court is watching; he cannot afford to let his concerns show. Not here. Not tonight.

But then, from the corner of his eye, something else catches his attention—a flash of deep plum silk, a braid of silver hair glinting in the candlelight. His eyes shift, narrowing as he tracks the movement, and there you are, his younger daughter, Y/N, weaving through the crowd with that same effortless grace, the very image of your late mother Alyssa in her youth.

Viserys watches as you glide from one partner to the next, a playful smile ever present on your lips. Each lord who steps forward is charmed, entranced even, but there is one figure whose presence never strays far from your orbit—Ser Harwin Strong. The son of his current Hand, a man known for his strength and loyalty, but also for the intensity of his gaze, a gaze that now rests solely on you.

Viserys leans forward slightly, frowning as he observes the exchange unfolding before him. Harwin moves closer, clearly intent on catching you, and you—ever the playful one—tease him with fleeting glances, spinning just out of his reach each time he draws near. The way your eyes gleam with mischief, the way you turn your back only to glance over your shoulder at him, invites more than just a dance. It’s a game, and one that is all too familiar to Viserys, who remembers his own youth, and the thrill of such pursuits.

But then Harwin catches you. His large hand wraps around your waist, pulling you closer, closer than what is proper for a dance in front of the entire court. Your laughter rings out like silver bells, light and teasing as you push back against him, yet the way Harwin’s hand lingers—fingers splayed possessively against the silk of your gown—does not escape your father’s notice. The look on Harwin’s face is far too unguarded, a mixture of admiration and longing that sends a jolt of concern racing through Viserys.

Viserys’ chest tightens as he watches you lean in, saying something that makes Harwin’s smile sharpen, though the words are lost to the music and laughter that fills the hall. Then, just as quickly as he caught you, you slip away again, your skirts swirling as you twirl out of his grasp, leaving Harwin standing in the middle of the floor with a look of mingled frustration and desire. The scene plays out before Viserys like a vivid memory, like something he should have noticed sooner, something he should have acted upon long before tonight.

His eyes narrow as he follows the thread of events with growing unease. You laugh and dance your way out of the hall, light-footed and swift, and though Harwin remains behind for a few moments, his gaze tracks you with the keen eye of a falcon. Then, as discreetly as he can manage, Harwin moves toward the exit, following you.

Viserys’ grip on his goblet tightens until he fears it might shatter in his hand. He remains rooted to his seat, unwilling to cause a scene, yet the implications churn in his mind like a dark tide. The daughter who bears his blood, a Targaryen of pure lineage, slipping away with the son of his Hand? It is unthinkable—and yet, Viserys cannot ignore the undeniable connection between the two of you. The way you moved in tandem, how easily you played off one another as if you were two parts of a whole. It stirs something in Viserys, a deep-seated dread that this could lead to something more—something he has not prepared for.

His gaze shifts, and he meets the eyes of Lord Lyonel Strong. The Hand is seated farther down the table, looking distinctly uncomfortable, as though he too is aware of the precarious position his son is placing him in. When their eyes lock, Viserys does not miss the brief flash of unease in Lyonel’s expression, followed quickly by a nod of acknowledgment, as if to say he understands what Viserys is thinking. And, undoubtedly, he does.

The memory rushes back, clear as day—months ago, when Lyonel Strong came to him with a proposition a second time. “Your Grace,” Lyonel had said, his voice steady and filled with the gravity of a man who understood the weight of his words, “there are many fine matches to be made for your daughter, Y/N, from prominent houses across the realm. But I would humbly suggest that what my son Harwin offers may be worth more than mere lineage. His devotion to the princess is unwavering, and his love is without question. He would be a husband who honors her above all else, a union built on something deeper than mere alliances.”

At the time, Viserys had dismissed the notion—politely, but firmly. His daughter was a Targaryen, and surely she deserved a match that would strengthen their house politically, not merely satisfy matters of the heart. Yet now, watching the scene unfold before him, Viserys finds himself second-guessing his decision. Could there be merit in such a match after all? Could Lyonel’s words hold more truth than Viserys had been willing to see? But then again, to allow such a thing would be to acknowledge a love affair that has clearly grown far beyond simple courtly affection.

Viserys’ thoughts whirl, torn between the duty of a king and the love of a father. He knows that if he raises the matter now, it could cast a shadow over the entire evening, drawing unwelcome attention to something that should remain hidden, if only for the sake of peace. And yet, can he afford to remain silent, knowing the path that such unchecked desire could lead his daughter down? His gaze flicks back to the entrance where you vanished, and a part of him itches to rise from his seat, to go after you and demand answers.

But he stays rooted in place, forced into inaction by the eyes of the court and the weight of his crown. Instead, his gaze returns to Lyonel, and he sees the older man swallow nervously before looking away, clearly wishing to be anywhere else. The tension between them is palpable, unspoken yet undeniable.

Viserys takes a deep breath, forcing himself to remain calm. The decision he makes next could have lasting consequences, for both you and the realm. As the music swells and the laughter of the court continues around him, the king’s mind churns, trapped in a web of duty, love, and fear.

For now, he decides to wait—he will watch, and if Harwin oversteps again, then the matter will be brought to light. But the seed of doubt has already taken root in Viserys’ heart, and it will not be easily dismissed.

The night is long, but Viserys’ thoughts are longer still.

You slip through the winding corridors of the Red Keep, your heart thrumming in your chest as you make your way deeper into its shadowed recesses. The sound of music and laughter fades behind you as you reach a secluded passage, hidden away from the eyes of the court. This path is familiar, a secret shared only between the two of you. You’ve met here before, during stolen moments when the weight of duty and the eyes of others became too much to bear. The flickering torchlight casts long shadows along the stone walls, giving the space an almost dreamlike quality. Yet there is nothing dreamlike about the tension that crackles in the air as you wait, anticipation coiling like a serpent beneath your skin.

Footsteps echo faintly down the passage, the heavy tread unmistakable. A smirk tugs at your lips as you press your back against the cool stone, the thrill of the chase still buzzing in your veins. He always catches you in the end; it’s a part of the game, a part of the dance you both know so well. You hear him approach, his steps purposeful, a hunter closing in on his prey. You hold your breath, relishing the thrill of being caught, knowing what comes next.

And then he’s there—Ser Harwin Strong, towering and fierce, the firelight casting sharp angles across his rugged features. He looks at you with that smoldering gaze, dark and intense, his chest heaving as he closes the distance between you. “You run from me as if you ever wanted to get away,” he says, his voice a low rumble that sends shivers down your spine.

You don’t reply with words, only a wicked smile that dares him to come closer. And he does, with a predatory grace, until his body is pressed against yours, trapping you between the stone wall and his broad chest. “Caught you,” he murmurs, his breath hot against your ear, one hand sliding up to cradle your jaw while the other grips your waist possessively.

Before you can retort, his lips crash against yours in a kiss that’s anything but gentle. It’s all fire and hunger, the pent-up tension of the night spilling over as he devours you with a need that’s impossible to hide. You kiss him back with equal fervor, fingers tangling in his dark curls as you pull him closer, desperate to close the distance that’s been kept between you all night. Every touch, every bite and nip, is laced with the emotions you can’t express openly—a love too dangerous to voice in the light of day, but undeniable in moments like this.

Harwin’s hands roam over your body with a familiarity that sends heat pooling in your core. He tugs at the laces of your gown, his fingers rough but practiced, until the fabric loosens and falls away, exposing the soft skin of your neck and shoulders. You gasp against his lips as he nips at your throat, the scrape of his teeth drawing a moan from your lips. His own garments follow suit—his tunic and belt discarded hastily, the sound of cloth hitting stone echoing faintly in the small space.

The air between you crackles with a desperate need, the kind that’s built up over countless stolen moments, secret touches, and longing glances. There’s no pretense here, no titles or duties—only the raw, unfiltered connection between you. Harwin’s hands slide down your waist, gripping your hips firmly as he lifts you, pressing you harder against the wall. You wrap your legs around him instinctively, gasping as you feel him against you, hard and ready. The anticipation coils tightly in your belly, every nerve alive with want.

His eyes meet yours for a fleeting moment, and in them, you see everything he can’t say aloud—devotion, desire, and the promise that he would burn the world for you if you asked. But words are unnecessary now. You reach down, guiding him until he’s pressed right where you need him most. There’s a brief, charged pause—a moment where everything hangs on the edge—and then he pushes into you in one smooth, powerful motion.

The world tilts, pleasure and need blurring everything else as he sets a rhythm, hard and fast, the way he knows you both like it. It’s familiar and yet never loses its edge—each thrust, each gasp, sending sparks of electricity through you. You bury your face in the crook of his neck, biting down on the rough skin to muffle your cries, while his own growls of pleasure vibrate against your ear. His hands grip you tightly, fingers digging into your flesh as he moves, driving into you with a force that leaves you breathless.

But it’s not just the physical pleasure that binds you in this moment. It’s the intimacy, the shared understanding that this is where you both belong—together, hidden away from the prying eyes of the world. Here, you are not a princess, and he is not merely the son of the Hand. Here, you are simply two people who have found something rare and precious, something that defies the rules of the world you live in.

He kisses you again, slower this time, a searing heat beneath the tenderness as he deepens the connection between you. Your bodies move in sync, finding that perfect rhythm that drives you both higher, closer to the edge. You can feel it building, a tightening coil of pleasure that threatens to snap at any moment. His name falls from your lips like a prayer, a desperate plea, and he responds with your name in kind, low and reverent.

The world narrows to just the two of you—the heat of his body, the rough press of stone at your back, the intoxicating scent of sweat and desire. And then, with one final thrust, the tension breaks, pleasure crashing over you like a wave, drowning you in bliss. Harwin follows a heartbeat later, a guttural groan tearing from his throat as he buries himself deep, his body trembling with the force of his release.

For a long moment, neither of you move, the air thick with the aftermath of your passion. You stay entwined, foreheads pressed together as you catch your breath, your heartbeats slowing in tandem. His hands are still on you, holding you as if he’s afraid you might slip away even now. And for a moment, the world is quiet, all worries and responsibilities forgotten in the haze of sated desire.

But reality is never far away. Slowly, you both come back to yourselves, and he reluctantly pulls back, letting you slide down until your feet touch the ground once more. There’s a flicker of regret in his eyes, a wish that this moment could last longer, but he says nothing as he helps you adjust your gown, his touch gentle now.

You smooth down your skirts, fixing your hair with a practiced ease, though the flush of your skin and the brightness in your eyes would give you away to anyone who looked closely enough. Harwin lingers, his fingers brushing against your cheek in a soft, almost reverent caress. “You always make me chase you,” he murmurs, his voice laced with fondness.“

And you always catch me,” you reply, the smile on your lips tinged with affection. “Perhaps I simply enjoy the chase.”

He chuckles, but there’s a seriousness in his gaze as he cups your face in his hands, holding you still for a moment longer. “One day, I won’t let you run again,” he says quietly, the promise heavy in the air.

You don’t answer, not with words. Instead, you lean up to kiss him one last time, slow and lingering, tasting the bittersweet mix of what you have and what you cannot yet fully claim. When you pull away, you give him a final smile before slipping out of the shadows and back into the world where duty and decorum await.

Harwin remains behind, watching you go with a look that holds both longing and resolve. He knows this is far from over.

#house of the dragon #hotd harwin #hotd #hotd x y/n #hotd x reader #hotd x you #harwin x reader #harwin x y/n #harwin x you #harwin breakbones #ser harwin #harwin strong #rhaenyra targaryen #hotd viserys #viserys targaryen

457 notes · View notes

upslapmeal · 1 year ago

Text

Rogue

Hey did you know this episode is going to be a bit Bridgerton? Not sure if the trailers ever mentioned it

gotta love an ep that starts with a bit of murder

just realised this is only the second non-RTD ep

I guess a shorter series means fewer eps for other writers :/

Fifteen and Ruby looking excellent!

‘try not to get engaged’ yeah you’d know about that wouldn’t you Doc. don't go giving anyone cocoa

‘does not-a-lord have a name?’ getting the Ken accent out

lmao they’re even doing the Bridgeton thing of playing covers of pop songs

surely going to send the Doctor Who Is A TV Show theorists wild

as well as Susan Twist being ‘just an actor playing several roles’

(RTD you absolute liar)

I haven't really been following the theory other than being vaguely aware of its existence but can you imagine if 'it's the only actor we could get' ended up as the in-universe explanation for her

‘you travel in a shed? why isn’t it cloaked’ get rekt

getting sad Captain Jack vibes

‘my name’s bond. molecular bond’

‘was that a wee smile from the most serious man in history?’ och aye

all the doctors!!!

shalka doctor???

‘come with me and you’ll be in a world of pure imagination’ Ncuti said he wanted to be Wonka or the Doctor!!

Fifteen: we've both lost everyone we've loved. hot.

Doctor bit of advice. your sad comments about losing everyone are slightly undercut by going :DD that's my best friend!! when asked about the person you're with lol

('I lost everyone. everyone I travelled with. ok the last one I just kinda told to go away because I was changing my face but yeah)

you know given that the jukebox is literally the only bit of furniture Fifteen has it would be nice if it was used like……ever

‘we can’t kill it so we’ll send it to a random barren dimension to die a slow isolated death!’ good old Doctor logic

‘tv signals beam out across the stars’ ok I genuinely have only come across the tv theory in passing but 👀

it is…interesting that they’ve gone for a kinda Bridgerton-style casting after last week’s ep…

if the chuldur had been wearing the duchess longer I’d have imagined it was engineered to look like Bridgerton but that’s not the case

Cameca in the distance like oh no not again

‘start wars with anyone who doesn’t look British!’ tbh I think they were managing that without the chuldur

oh no… Emily is going to be one of them isn’t she

that explains her just explaining social rules to Ruby earlier instead of being surprised she was even asking! that struck me as odd but I thought it was just the writing being a bit clunky

RUBY NO!!!

oh Doctor :( jinxed when you made that promise to keep her safe

‘your…birdiness’

wait wait oh no

ruby’s going to be pretending isn’t she

it’s why she’s the only one who still looks human

it'll have been interference from the earrings or something

yesss it was the earrings!

oh Ruby so willing to go :(

Doctor now is not the time for smooching!!!

well. that was a simpler fix than I expected

Fifteen: I’m fine!!!! ((((:

gotta love a big ol' hug

Fun! Silly! What other tv show could have serious thread villains with bird faces talking about cosplaying the world to death. Excellent. (In honesty not as good as the last few eps but enjoyably ridiculous with a decent dollop of heart)

#one more to go then off to the cinema!!!#rogue #doctor who #fifteenth doctor #ruby sunday #dw #ramblings

20 notes · View notes

drachonia · 8 months ago

Text

𝐢 ’ 𝐦 𝐧 𝐨 𝐠 𝐨 𝐨 𝐝 .

Kinktober Day 29 Roger Barel x OC insert

𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬: amy winehouse songs are a blessing. playing with personalities with this one, hope you’ll forgive me if this seems a bit off. 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬: @candiedcoffeedrops @candied-boys @natimiles (hope you like this one nati! <3) 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠: bathtub sex, a hint of creampie, pretty vanilla this time.

There was little rest to be had when you were a villain. No rest for the wicked, evil never sleeps, the dead don’t rest…anything in that vein. All of them were definitely things that weighed on Roger as he got to cleaning up and replacing the sickbed that Jude had once again managed to leave a literal bloody mess. Sometimes — rarely but still, he thought once in awhile — the huntsman wondered what exactly made the stress, blood, and tears worth it. Just then a soft hum reached his ears and his nerves instantly calmed as he trained his ears on the noise that gave the same relaxation as a sweet birdsong.

“How many times do I love thee, dear? Tell me, how many thoughts there be in the atmosphere?” The soft voice carried him through the work of sterilizing his instruments for the next use, replacing the tools he needed to before he stored it all away safely. The gentle cadence seemed to lead him the same way Ale would be led by the scent of freshly smoked and dried jerky. It was the slightest bit funny to him that despite teasing her like a puppy, the tables had turned on him. Now he was like a loyal and loving companion to her just as much — if not more — than she was to him.

And he didn’t mind that one bit.

“…Of a new-fall'n year, whose white and sable hours appear…” he trotted up the large stairwell, a spring in each step that landed on it, eventually reaching the upper floor where the living quarters of crown resided. The softness of that voice grew louder in his ears as he smiled to himself a bit, hearing the faint splash and dripping of water the closer he got to her room.

“The latest flake of Eternity: So many times do I love thee, dear.” He took a step into her room, hearing that last line of verse come from the bathroom door left ajar. His fingers quietly pried the door open as she relaxed in the soapy water of the bath. His eyes took in the flushed look of pale skin with hair black as night, reaching down to cradle her chin and tilt back her head to look at him. Soft ruby lips parted slightly in surprise before lifting into a happy toothy smile.

“Y’know i didn’t expect your head to look this tiny when I grab you by the chin..” he chuckled, kneeling beside the bath and reaching his hand to grasp hers, threading big, calloused fingers with her full, gentle much smaller ones.

“Same as I didn’t expect you to come into a woman’s room with no warning, invitation, or greeting other than to simply shove your dirty hands in my bath.” She scolded lightly, his lips pressing to her ear, then her temple, then her cheek, then her neck, the light huff of a laugh finally escaping her.

“My lil’ lady could never be mad at me, could she?” His opposite hand drifted from its place on her neck to feel over her side beneath her arm and curl around to grip one breast, trailing a thumb over the swell as her breath hitched in her throat. The look of excitement in her eyes didn’t escape his watchful eyes, but he would let it slide this time. Her misty forest eyes flitted to the side as she sighed shakily, “Roger, if you’re not going to be of help with my bath, you can relax on the bed.” She huffed, closing her eyes and sinking into the bath with a sigh, only to hear the rustle of fabric and the clink of boots, suspenders and belts. Before she could properly scold her lover, he climbed into the tub across from her. His hand shot out and grasped her arm, gently tugging her forth through the suds and up into his lap, straddled across his bare hips and pressed to his broad chest.

“Now…I think we both deserve a bit of relaxation and recuperation tonight. And what better way to do that than this?” He purred next to her ear, Angeline’s body relaxing as her lover grasped her hips and guided them to his, her breath hitching as her folds caught on the swell of his tip, a curse passing her lips as Roger groaned in her ear, “Come on, lil’ beast, don’t you think we’ve both been stressed lately? Isn’t that why you’re in the bath?” He rumbled as his large hands grasped her breasts and palmed them slowly, drawing soft moans out of her as she lifted her hips and started to rub and tease the hood of her folds over him beneath the water, the resistance only making her want it more as she sunk down on him, earning a stream of curses from Roger in the process of her lowering the first inch inside.

“Roger..!” Her soft voice carried as the hunts man gripped her hips just below her abdomen, his hands gently coaxing her down his shaft as he continued to grunt softly, “Damn, you’re always so tight for me…” he moaned into her shoulder as he rutted his hips through the resistant water, eventually pushing every last inch inside as he arched his hips up with her atop his lap, the water sloshing a bit while he stroked a thumb over the space in her gut occupied by the faint outline of him through her skin, “You look scrumptious like that, filled up, you know that?” He rested his head against hers, eyes locked together as he buried his length in her over and over.

“Roger…! Roger!” She gasped, the water loudly splashing and dripping in the warm tub as he held her up, “Cum for me, lil’ lady, that’s it…” his voice strained as he felt his own orgasm build with how she throttled him inside her, her dark eyes watching his expression intently as she bounced in his lap, her tongue parting those pretty lips as she stared at him through lashes heavy with affection. Her body was practically made to counter his in almost every way as her soft pale skin pressed to his sun kissed tan, arms wrapping around his neck as she whined for him, coming undone in Roger’s lap with the huntsman following suit, pulsating inside as his warmth filled her with each pump of his hips up into her, “D-Damn…!” He cursed under his breath, cradling her cheeks in his hands as she caught her breath and looked into his eyes tenderly, “You’re downright sinful the way you cling to me, you know that?” She nodded, lightheaded but satisfied by it all, her fingers digging into his biceps as she leaned in to kiss him once more.

“Then maybe you shouldn’t make fun of me if I can just do…this.” She flicked her hips down on him as he grunted in a mix of pain and pleasure.

“S-Shit…my head’s spinning, don’t do that unless you wanna—fuck!” Roger hissed as her hips continued to make those quick but energetic snaps against his, sending the huntsman over the edge, “Fuck!” He gasped, grasping her lower back and squeezing the curve of her backside as he buried more of his seed into his ebony-haired companion, catching his breath with wide eyes, “That was downright sinful, lil’ lady…” he breathed as he rested his head against her shoulder, listening to her giggle above him, “Good. It makes me happy when you groan like that." Her hands cupped his cheeks tenderly, feeling her squeeze around him still, “How is it you always feel like a vice around me, eh?” He huffed, nuzzling into her shoulder, “It’s because — and I say this not to stroke your ego but nip it in the bud — you’re impossibly huge for me. Bastard.” She flicked his forehead with her thumb and forefinger, sitting back on his knees as he held her close.

“Yeah?” He grinned against her skin, wrapping an arm around her and pushing up with the other to climb out of the tub, a strangled moan leaving his partner as her walls shifted around him at the movement.

“Come on, let’s see how much of this ‘bastard’ you can take.” Her whines and the way her eyes pricked with tears of pleasure almost made him press her into the wall and have her there, but he’d wait until they reached the bed. She seemed to be rocking between that pleasured haze of passing out and the act of digging her nails into his skin so hard he swore he started bleeding down his back as he finally reached the bed, all but falling on top of her.

“Shit…” he hissed as he placed large hands on either side of her head, watching how the swell of her breasts lightly bounced each time he moved, leaning down to kiss and lap at her damp lashes, “I could get lost in how hot you feel wrapped around me, lil’ lady. Feels like I’ve been wrapped up in a furnace. Keep hugging me like that, that’s it.” Roger coaxed as his forehead rested against hers, his lower back curving in a slight downward arch only to snap his hips forward and drive deeper into her. The soft cries she gave under him were enough to keep him going long through the night to keep his lover’s body warm.

10 notes · View notes