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p-seduonym · 1 month ago

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Switched At Birth (Part Nine)

A/N: Annnd I'm back! Hey y'all I just needed a breather for a bit. My brain was indundated me with ideas so I took a break. But I'm here now! Here's a hefty chapter to compensate for my absence. It's a bit more character centered, explaining Melissa's neglect in the Batfam. Also, thank you all so much for your ideas! I promise I'll get into a few of them after this chapter.

Taglist (I'll add you if you ask): @von-jour, @holylonelyponyeatingmacaroni, @kenyummy, @bunniotomia, @ch1cky-093, @toxicthotsyndrome68, @cynniee, @icefox8155, @eyeless-kun, @c4xcocoa, @ed15fashionista, @yourtypicalhuman09, @fightmebissh. @tsuniio, @fantasyhopperhea, @type-ink, @dirtydiavolo, @colorfulgardenerduck, @seemeee3, @ironsaladwitch, @yumeravenclaw, @jjsmeowthie, @snowy-violet, @wizzerreblogs, @ratterpatter, @gremlin-dumpster-fire-art, @anonymoustext, @a-heavenly-hell, @holderoflostmemories, @ilovecoffe0, @presleyamos, @lordbugs, @shyenemyperson, @adrakeshoard, @sadeem575, @nebsisdead, @moon0goddess

Yandere!Batfam X Switched! Fem! Reader X Yandere!Wayne!OC

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

Part Four

Part Five

Part Six

Part Seven

Part Eight

Tatienne Crow was your birth mother.

From the many glossy fashion spreads and tabloid snippets to the singular, sterile obituary, you'd pieced together a reasonable portrait. She had been young—too young, maybe—vivacious, and sharp in a way that made people both admire and fear her. In every photograph, she looked like she knew a secret no one else did. As if she was in on the joke of the world. A model turned muse, turned fleeting cautionary tale.

She lived fast and loose, long faded magazines said. Hopped continents on invite alone, slipped into parties through back entrances, and tangled herself in the arms of men who had more money than morals. There were plenty of rumors and scandals, of addiction, of various paramours, of a baby born from a particularly messy affair.

That's what she was like.

On paper, at least.

From Mel, you had heard her side– the version not meant for publication.

“She loved hard,” Melissa confessed the day you met, eyes glassy but unblinking. “Like… it was the only way she knew how to prove she was real.”

And that was all she could muster.

So you were left to find the rest yourself.

A light drizzle painted the street under the eerie silver beams of the full moon. It was the kind of Gotham rain that made everything feel blurred at the edges.

This building is old, art deco styled—elegant but weary. Previously housing models, designers, socialites, it now mostly holds ghosts and legacy leases. The doorman was long gone, and the security system, not so lucky.

Entering the service stairwell, you quickly climbed the emergency stairs with deliberate steps. Floor after floor, you ascended until you reached the twenty first floor. The door to the hallway was locked, but not for long. You were far from an expert, but you still fetched the tool from your duffle and kneel. It was pretty crude; just a bobby pin snapped in half and fixed to a paper clip. You were still learning, after all. But, still, you were determined, and more than a little curious. That helps.

And your efforts were rewarded with a soft click.

The carpeted floors muffled your steps as you crept into the dim hallways.The number plate on the door is still there: 2102. The gold is tarnished, a little crooked, like it was trying desperately not to be seen.The door was shut firmly, so you fished out your second tool: a simple screwdriver from the garage’s toolbox. Feeling oddly calm and collected, you began to unscrew the door from its hinges. Removing the last screw, you gently coaxed the door from its groove in the doorway.

It gave way with a heavy and reluctant sigh, like the apartment itself resented being disturbed.

Regardless, you stepped inside, crossing the threshold of the ornate mausoleum.

Dust spilled in the slant of the moonlight, as a long abandoned world unfurls before you; silk curtains half-drawn, wine stained carpet, a faint scent of roses and smoke clinging to the air like an old memory.

Everything is still here. Unlived-in, untouched. Like someone meant to come back, but never did.

You moved past the foyer into the living room. The furniture is lush and fading. You spotted a glass ashtray that still held a single, half-burned cigarette. Beneath a wall of vinyls, a record player sat idle. Diana Ross. Nico. Bowie.

You didn’t bother with the lights, whether they still worked or not.

Instead you just walked deeper into the gloom, a quiet silhouette in your mother’s tomb. The city buzzed incessantly outside. And here, in the dark, you feel something almost ancient settle over your shoulders.

Not grief.

Not yet.

Just weight.

Your phone buzzed in your pocket. You pulled it out and saw Melissa’s name flashing.

You didn’t answer. Not right away.

Instead, you looked around once more, feeling the silence pulse around you like a second heartbeat. Then, as the phone buzzed again, you brought it to your ear.

“Hey,” you said, tone careful. You didn’t tell her where you were.

“Hey,” Melissa replied, her voice soft, like she already knew. “Is this a bad time?”

You turn towards the window, stretching from the carpeted floor to the ceiling, decorated with a murky, glass chandelier. The Gotham skyline blinked in gold and gray beyond the rain-streaked glass.

“No,” you answered, gently dragging your fingertips along the sofa. You could see a slight discoloration in the path. “Just on a walk. Thinking.”

Melissa, bless her heart, didn’t call out your lie. Rather, she just hummed in acknowledgement.

“About what?”

The air grew silent around you. You could only hear Melissa breathing as well as some light shuffling in the background. You continued through your trek through the recesses of your mother’s home. Instead of answering, you replied with another question.

“Hey…tell me more about her?”

“Hmm?” Melissa made a questioning noise. “About who?”

“You know.”

There was a pause on the line. You could hear the faint sound of water running in the background—maybe a sink, maybe rain outside her window

“Yeah, I know. It’s just…hard to talk about her”

You reached a room that looked like the master suite. A large plush bed, with a walk-in closet. The air was stale—thick with dust and the faded sweetness of long-dead perfume. Something floral, maybe jasmine, but heavier, more decadent. It clung to the walls, the drapes, the velvet settee in the corner, like memory embalmed in fragrance. Against the far wall, a vanity sat coyly. And as you approached, you saw the remnants of Tatienne.

Your fingers ghosted over an old lipstick tube—Tom Ford, discontinued years ago. Your reflection in the vanity mirror was dim, your face softly fractured by dust.

“You don’t have to, if it’s too much”

“N-No, you deserve this much. She-”

Melissa cut herself off with a sigh. Without seeing it, you knew she was likely fidgeting with her hand.

“She was a lot,” She said it like a confession. “ Like– too much, in every way. Too young, too messy, too beautiful, too loud–”

You stared into the mirror. If you looked closely enough, you felt like Tatienne was staring back.

You didn’t say anything. She needed room, not encouragement.

“--Like she was born too big for the world and just kept cracking at the edges trying to fit into it.”

You opened a container of rouge. A jagged crack split the makeup in two halves.

“She used to wear perfume that smelled like grapefruit and cigarettes. Had this way of putting lipstick on while yelling at someone on the phone. And when she laughed?” Melissa gave a weak chuckle. “You’d think the world was ending. It always felt like the last good sound you’d ever hear.”

There was another pause. A quieter one this time.

“But…she loved too much.” Melissa’s voice lowered. “Like she had too much of it, and it hurt her. She never talked about any family. I think something went wrong along the way and they don’t talk anymore. But, she still wanted to be loved, you know? There were a lot of guys. None of them stuck around for long”

Her voice grew dreamy, like she was in trance.

“To love and be loved…isn’t that what everyone wants?”

Melissa sighed.

“I think she loved Bruce. You probably know how that turned out. He…wasn’t around when I was little, I think that hurt her too. She didn’t say it though”

“‘Drug-addict,’ ‘Whore’... I didn't really know what those meant when I was little,” Melissa murmured. “...but I knew they were bad.”

“She loved me. I know she did. Things…just got too bad for her.”

As Melissa spoke, you moved deeper into the closet.

It was larger than you expected. Almost theatrical in size—more like a showroom than a personal space. And yet, it felt strangely hollow. The kind of emptiness that wasn’t born from disuse, but from careful, deliberate curation. A life stripped for display.

The good pieces were gone. That much was clear. No archival Dior, no high-fashion heels or designer handbags. In their place: moth-eaten furs, loud sequined gowns with dated cuts, satin robes dulled from wear. The clothes that remained were ostentatious but not luxurious—cheap, performative, and loud in a way that felt desperate.

Like they were trying to be seen.

A few empty hangers swung gently from the metal rack, clicking together like wind chimes. On a low shelf, a pair of strappy stilettos sat abandoned, one heel broken. A single run-down hatbox was tucked in the corner, partially open, revealing feathers and crushed netting—stagewear, maybe. Costume jewelry glittered under a faint layer of dust.

“I-I really didn’t want to go with Bruce, but I didn’t have anyone else. I thought he’d have problems, like she did, but would still care. Would still love me, cause I was his daughter, right?”

You crouched in the closet, one hand resting on the floor for balance. The air in here was heavier somehow, thicker. You ran your fingers along a sequined dress that caught the dim light like a broken disco ball.

“I thought that meant something,” Melissa continued, her voice thinner now. “But it didn’t. Not really. He barely looked at me. The others... they didn’t either.”

You let the silence stretch, watching dust particles drift lazily in the air like ash.

“Dick, he was nice, you know? It took a bit to see him after I got there, but he always smiled. Always said ‘Hi’ and ‘How are you?’. It was a bit much at first, but it felt nice.”

She gave a small, humorless huff.

“But, I kinda knew I wasn't important to him. Not really. He always had something else to do or someone else to be with. I-It’s not like I needed him around all the time, I just never had a brother before and hoped we could spend time together. He was everyone’s ‘big brother’, right?”

You found an old pair of stilettos knocked sideways in a pile. One heel was broken. You gently set them upright, for no real reason.

“I kind of realized he was just being that. ‘Nice’, I mean, cause that’s what you do with strangers.”

Your fingers drifted along a rack of disheveled dresses. One of them still bore a faint perfume—jasmine warped into something more acrid with age. You noted the odd arrangement: heavier pieces in the front, lighter ones stuffed toward the back. Like someone had stopped caring how things were organized.

“Jason was … complicated. Came from Crime Alley and his mom had problems too. I tried to understand, even if I didn’t completely get it. I guess I was too much–” She chuckled, without any mirth. “He…didn’t like me. I walked behind him one time and he just…snapped. I-I guess I was too quick or too quiet or something? He grabbed me. Pinned me to the wall. I thought he was going to break my arm, he twisted it so hard.”

You knelt to examine a box tucked underneath a sagging shelf. It contained several Polaroids—some curled from moisture, others scrawled on in red pen. Men’s names. Phone numbers. A few love notes, probably never sent. Each one another thread of the life Tatienne had tried to weave, only for it to unravel again and again.

“Left bruises for a while. He said it was a reflex, but what kind of reflex does that? Dick said I should be more careful next time…I didn’t talk to him after that.”

The residual droplets of rain had long passed dried on your hoodie, but a chill still raked itself down your body. Even then, you didn’t shiver.

“Tim was a miracle child. A prodigy to be proud of. It was hard being his age, cause he just accomplished so much already. I thought we could relate, even a little. But he always had this look like he was talking to a child. We came to the manor at the same time, but I always felt out of place. Not like him”

You closed the box.

Not everything here was worth keeping. But it was worth knowing.

This wasn’t just a closet.

It was the final echo of a woman who had tried to live larger than her circumstances—who had loved hard, fallen harder, and still left something behind.

“Damian was always someone I couldn’t figure out. He never acted like a kid. Never talked like one, either. But the first day I met him, he looked at me with…disgust. I didn’t know why, but It felt weird to be completely dressed down by a kid, but– ” Her voice sounded suspiciously watery.

“Steph was sweet. For like, a week. She gave me a tour of the manor. Giggled about how weird it all was. Acted like we were gonna be friends. Then she just… stopped. Like I didn’t pass some invisible test. One day she was inviting me to sit with her in the garden, the next she barely looked up when I said hi. Cass never spoke to me. It was almost a relief, really, after all that..”

You halted, stopping your search in its place. Pressing the phone closer to your ear, your heard her take a shaky breath.

“I tried,” she said. “I really did. I was polite. Quiet. I didn’t ask for anything. I just… I just wanted to belong somewhere. I thought if I didn’t cause trouble, they’d make room for me. But I was always just... extra. Like a guest that didn’t know when to leave”

“I thought maybe if I could be more like them—more polished, more useful, more whatever—I’d matter. But they already had each other. And I was just some charity case nobody knew what to do with. Not a sister. Not a daughter.”

You stood now, slowly, carefully. Your gaze drifted back to the mirror. Your reflection was still dim, still fractured. But not just yours. Hers too. Hers especially.

“They didn’t see me,” Melissa whispered. “Not really.”

And still, she hadn’t raised her voice. Not once.

You realized, maybe she never had.

Not to them.

Not to anyone.

Not even when she should have.

You looked at your reflection again—dusty, dim, and still. But something inside you had shifted. A thread pulled taut, then snapped. You’d always known Melissa was lonely. But not like this. Not this hollow.

You brought the phone back to your ear, voice low but certain.

“They’ll see you now.”

Melissa didn’t answer right away. You imagined her curling tighter into herself, unsure whether she’d heard you right.

“I mean it,” you said, firmer this time. “Whatever it takes. I’ll make them look. I’ll make them see you.”

A long silence passed on the line, soft as breath.

Then, faintly:

“…Thank you.”

Right before you hit "End Call", Mel whispered to you, almost a confession.

"--she would have loved you, y'know?"

You ended the call a moment later but didn’t move. Just stood there, surrounded by remains of a woman who burned too brightly, promising yourself—

You would do it better.

You would wear the name, the smile, the war paint of wealth.

You’d step into the light like it belonged to you.

And when they turned to look at you, it would be her they’d see.

It would always be her.

A/N: Sorry for all the names! I know this is suppose to be a reader-insert but it always felt awkward to me to just put stuff life (Y/L/N) or (M/N), you feel me? If you'd don't like it, I'll try to avoid name in the future. Btw, did you notice the subtle similarities between reader and Bruce? I'm asking cause I might have made it too subtle, almost nonexistent.

#yandere #yandere blog #yandere core #platonic yandere #familial yandere #romantic yandere #yandere batfam #yandere batfam x reader #yandere batfamily #yandere batfamily x reader #yandere oc #original character #yandere oc x reader #just let me ramble #switched at birth au

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surielstea · 6 months ago

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Breaking Point

Pairing: Poly!Bat boys x Fem!Reader

Summary: After a petty arguement Reader gives the three males the silent treatment, they use their best efforts in getting her to break.

A.Note: Finally another bat boys smut, sorry it’s taken me so long!! Just as a reminder everyone is consenting, may seem a bit dubious due to the fact that reader is choosing to be silent but I promise you she is very much into it.

6.5k words.

I stepped into the house, the familiar sound of my mates bickering reaching me before I even closed the door. Kicking off my heels, I padded toward the sitting room, curiosity already piqued as their voices rose and fell.

Leaning against the archway leading to the foyer, I paused, catching sight of them. Cassian sprawled lazily across the couch, Rhys perched like the picture of regal authority in his armchair, and Azriel sat back with his arms crossed, shadows coiling lazily around him.

"Obviously, I'm the favorite," Cassian declared, his tone smug and entirely self-assured.

"Remind me," Azriel countered coolly, "which one of us has the largest wingspan?"

"That's completely irrelevant," Rhys drawled, looking between them with barely veiled disdain. "Everyone knows it's the charm that matters. And mine is unmatched."

I blinked, taking another step forward, the wood creaking beneath my foot and giving away my presence. Three heads swiveled toward me, hazel and violet eyes locking onto mine as I tilted my head and crossed my arms.

"What are you three arguing about now?" I asked, exasperation lacing my tone as I moved closer. I stopped beside Azriel's chair, resting my hip against its side and arching a brow at them.

Cassian grinned up at me like a cat who'd just found the cream. "We're debating who you love most."

Azriel and Rhys shot him withering glares, clearly not impressed with his confession.

I frowned. "You know I love all three of you equally."

"Sure," Rhys purred, a slow smirk spreading across his face. "But you must have a favorite."

"And it's me," Azriel added, his rare grin making his dimples flash. My heart softened at the sight—until the smugness in his tone caught up with me.

"No," I said, my frown deepening.

"Ha!" Cassian crowed, slapping his thigh. "You hear that, Az? Not you."

A flicker of something like hurt passed over Azriel's face, and I instantly regretted my tone. I opened my mouth to explain, but Cassian cut me off.

"C'mon, sweetheart, you don't have to lie. We all know I'm the favorite."

"No!" I said, louder this time, frustration creeping into my voice. "I love all of you equally. It's not a lie."

They exchanged looks, disbelief written all over their ridiculously handsome faces.

"You three know how I feel," I pressed, my voice softening as I tried to make them understand. "There's no competition. It's impossible to have one of you as a favorite when I love all of you for entirely different reasons."

Cassian, ever the instigator, grinned. "It's just a little fun, sweetheart."

"It's not fun for me," I said, my tone sharpening.

"Darling, relax," Rhys soothed, ever the diplomat. But then he ruined it with, "Some of us are just more lovable than others."

My anger crested.

"Relax?" I repeated, my voice dangerously calm. "You know this is a sensitive subject for me. Yet here you are, turning it into a joke."

"Love, we didn't mean—" Azriel began, but I cut him off, stepping back when his hand reached for me.

"No." I shook my head, my resolve hardening. "If you're going to keep this up, then leave me out of it. None of you will be joining me in bed tonight until you sort yourselves out."

The room erupted in protest.

"Sweetheart—"

"Darling—"

"Love—"

I held up a hand, silencing all three of them. "I don't want to hear it. I'm going to bed. Alone."

The protests followed me as I turned on my heel and marched down the hall, a smug little smile tugging at my lips despite my irritation. By the time I reached the bedroom, the sounds had faded, and I closed the door behind me with a decisive click.

Stripping out of my work clothes, I pulled on a soft set of pajamas and slid into the massive bed built for me and three oversized Illyrian warriors. The empty space on either side of me was glaringly obvious, but I pulled the blankets up to my chin and resolutely closed my eyes.

If they wanted to fight over who was my favorite, they could do it without me.

Tomorrow, they'd crawl back with apologies. They always did.

And maybe I'd make them work for it.

None of them had come to bed last night—or at least they'd found somewhere else to sleep. That was just as well. It saved them from my wrath this morning.

Still, as I woke up in the emptiness of our shared bed, I found myself missing the familiar sensation of warm, strong arms around me. Missing their presence, their scents lingered on my skin.

I huffed, pushing the thought away as I sat up, rubbing at my eyes. The ache in my chest wasn't their problem—not yet. Not until they earned it.

Slipping out of bed, I grabbed a soft robe, tying it loosely as I shuffled toward the door. My hair fell free around my shoulders as I walked down the hall, the faint sound of sizzling drawing my attention. My steps slowed as I turned into the kitchen, where Azriel stood at the stove, shirtless, his shadows lazily curling around him.

The sight was enough to make my breath hitch, but I schooled my expression, crossing my arms as I approached silently.

"Good morning," he said softly, his dimpled smile appearing the moment he noticed me. He leaned down to place a kiss on the crown of my head, his hand finding the small of my back like it belonged there.

I raised a brow at him, pointedly ignoring the way my skin warmed at his touch.

"Breakfast is ready," he murmured into my hair, his hand slipping lower, brushing the curve of my hip.

I stepped back, breaking his contact, my lips sealed shut.

His smile faltered, just slightly, but he recovered quickly, turning his attention back to the pan. "Decided on silent treatment?" he asked, his voice as smooth as silk, a teasing lilt in it. "You know we're sorry, love."

I moved to the counter, ignoring him entirely as I reached for a mug and poured myself a cup of tea.

"Come on," Azriel tried again, leaning one hip against the counter as he watched me. His hazel eyes glimmered with amusement—and a hint of something darker. "You can't stay mad at us forever."

I lifted the mug to my lips, meeting his gaze over the rim as I took a slow sip.

His dimples appeared again, this time edged with a trace of mischief. "You're not even going to tell me if you want more sugar in your tea? No?" He sighed but was far from giving up, turning back to the stove.

I pushed off the counter and retreated to the dining table, plate and mug in hand. Settling into my seat, I found Rhys already there, watching me like a predator sizing up its prey. His violet eyes sparkled with intrigue as he leaned forward, resting his chin on his knuckles.

"Won't speak to us, darling?" His voice was rich, a purr meant to coax me. "How cruel."

I arched a brow at him, picking up my fork and taking a bite of my food.

"Really? Not even a word?" He tilted his head, his smirk deepening. "You're killing us, you know that? Utterly heartless."

Cassian strolled in a moment later, his hair rumpled, his shirt half-buttoned, and his grin wide. "Ignoring us I hear?" He plopped into the chair beside me, sliding an arm across the back of my seat. I didn’t want to know how Cassian had already found out—Rhys’a daemati powers never ceased to make me shiver. "That's fine. I've got other ways of making you talk."

I ignored him too, stabbing another piece of food with my fork.

"Cold as ice," he muttered, shaking his head with mock disbelief. Then his grin sharpened as he leaned in close, his lips brushing my ear. "Don’t worry, we'll thaw you out, sweetheart."

Azriel appeared then, refilling my half-full mug with a quiet precision that belied the smirk tugging at his lips. He set the carafe down and crouched down beside my chair, resting his forearms on his knees as he looked up at me.

"Love," he murmured, his voice low enough to send shivers down my spine. "You can punish us however you like. But you're making it very, very hard not to make you put that fork down and remind you just how much we adore you."

I swallowed, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a reaction.

Rhys chuckled softly, the sound rich and knowing. "You're stronger than I thought," he mused, his fingers drumming against the table. "But let's see how long you last."

The three of them exchanged glances, something unspoken passing between them.

Cassian's hand brushed my thigh beneath the table, his grin wolfish as I shot him a warning glare. Azriel's shadows curled around my ankles, cool tendrils dragging up my calves. And Rhys, well Rhys just leaned back in his chair, his smirk promising retribution as his violet eyes burned into mine.

I was determined to hold my ground.

But with these three? That resolve was bound to be tested.

It’s been days and I have not cracked. I refused to speak unless absolutely necessary. It started as a petty game, but after a while, I was beginning to enjoy the yearning in their eyes, the professions of need they spoke into my skin. It was cruel, and I would’ve stopped it a long time ago if I knew some sick part of them didn’t enjoy it too.

I found myself curled up in the library, attempting to lose myself in the pages of a novel. The silence was comforting—until it wasn't.

Azriel's shadows had found me first, curling along the edge of my book and brushing against my fingers like curious cats. A moment later, their master appeared, leaning against the doorway with that infuriatingly calm expression.

"Figured I'd find you here," he said softly, stepping inside. His steps made no sound on the plush carpet as he approached.

I ignored him, my eyes fixed on the words in front of me.

He crouched down beside me, his head tilting as he studied me. "Still nothing?" he asked, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "You're stubborn, I'll give you that."

I turned a page, though I couldn't have recited what I'd just pretended to read.

He shifted closer, his shadows swirling lazily around us. "I've never minded the silence," he murmured, his voice low and intimate. "Allows me to think about things I’d prefer not to be distracted from."

One shadow darted forward, brushing the sensitive skin of my neck, then lower, tracing the line of my collarbone. I held perfectly still, refusing to react, though my heart raced as another shadow slid up my leg, curling just beneath the hem of my dress.

"Oh, sweet girl," he murmured, leaning in so close his breath ghosted over my ear. "I can hear your pulse. I can see the way your chest rises a little faster. You can't hide from me, love."

I turned another page, my expression neutral.

Azriel sighed, pulling back just enough to meet my gaze. "You're really not going to give me anything?" he asked, his dimples flashing as if he found this amusing. "Fine, I'll be seeing you at dinner then." He leaned closer and pressed a lingering kiss to my neck.

He rose gracefully, his shadows retreating as he disappeared into the hall, leaving me alone with a racing heart and the lingering brush of his touch.

When I finally left the library, I found Rhys waiting for me in the sitting room, lounging on the couch like he owned the place—which, of course, he did.

"There she is," he greeted with a dazzling smile, patting the spot beside him. "Come sit with me, darling. Let's talk."

I raised an eyebrow, folding my arms as I leaned against the doorway as if to say he’d be the one doing all the talking.

"Still not speaking?" he asked, his smile softening into something more mischievous. "You wound me, truly. But I have a feeling I know how to fix this."

He snapped his fingers, and suddenly the entire room was filled with the soft strains of music.

"Dance with me," he said, holding out a hand. "No words required."

I stared at him, unmoving. This was a new thing he’s been doing. Finding new elaborate ways to spend time with me that didn’t include talking, or sex, which was limited—but it was cute.

He sighed dramatically, rising to his feet and closing the distance between us. "I know you're angry," he murmured, his hand brushing against mine. "And you have every right to be. But I'm going to make you forgive us, one way or another."

Before I could step back, he tugged me into his arms, one hand slipping around my waist while the other cradled my hand.

The music swelled, and Rhys began to sway, his movements smooth and effortless as he led me into a slow, intimate dance.

"You're not even going to react?" he asked, his violet eyes locking onto mine. "No little smirk? Not even a glare?"

I remained stoic, though the corner of my mouth twitched despite my best efforts.

His grin widened, and he dipped me suddenly, his nose brushing against mine as he whispered, "That's my girl."

He dipped closer, his lips pressing against mine. For a moment I melted into it, relishing in the familiar sensation that I hadn't experienced in only a day but it somehow felt like years.

But just as he leaned in I was pulling away. I pushed against his chest, breaking free of his hold as I turned and marched out of the room, refusing to let him see the smile threatening to break through.

By the time dinner rolled around, I was determined to keep my composure. Cassian, however, had other plans.

He cornered me in the kitchen, his broad frame blocking my path as I tried to reach for a glass of water.

"Not so fast," he said, narrowing his brows as he looked down at me. "You've been avoiding me all day, sweetheart. It's starting to hurt my feelings."

I brushed past him, grabbing the glass and filling it at the sink.

"Oh, come on," he groaned, leaning against the counter. "You're really going to ignore me? After everything we've been through?" Cassian was the first I mated with, it was just me and him for a long while. For him to pull this card was unfair, then again I was being unfair just as well.

I took a slow sip of water, my gaze fixed on the window.

His grin turned wicked. "You know, I've been thinking. Maybe the silent treatment is your way of admitting you can't resist me."

I rolled my eyes but said nothing, setting the glass down and turning to leave.

He caught my wrist, tugging me back against him with a playful growl. "You can't walk away from me that easily."

His hands slipped to my waist, and before I could react, he hoisted me over his shoulder like a sack of flour.

I writhed, kicking my legs as he laughed, the sound deep and rich. "Keep squirming," he teased. "Still not talking, let's see if I can change that."

Cassian carried me through the halls like I weighed nothing, his arm hooked firmly around my thighs as I lightly smacked his back. My protests were silent, but the swat of my hand made him chuckle all the more, his laughter echoing through the house.

"You've got fight in you, sweetheart," he teased, adjusting his grip on me. "But I think it's time we settled this like adults."

I didn't bother rolling my eyes again—he couldn't see me, anyway. I let my arms dangle, feigning defeat, though the corners of my lips twitched as I fought the urge to smile.

We entered our bedroom, where Azriel and Rhys were already lounging, both looking up in unison at the sound of Cassian's boots hitting the floor.

"Look what I found," Cassian announced triumphantly, setting me down in the center of the room. His hands lingered on my waist as he steadied me, his hazel eyes bright with mischief. "She's still not talking, but I figured you two might want a chance to plead your case before we make her.”

Azriel's brow lifted, his shadows curling lazily around his shoulders. Rhys leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled, his expression unreadable—but his violet eyes gleamed with something that looked suspiciously like guilt.

"Darling," Rhys began, his voice smooth and soft as he rose to his feet. "We owe you an apology. All of us."

I crossed my arms, letting my gaze flick between the three of them as I arched a brow.

Azriel was the next to speak, standing and stepping closer, his wings rustling as he moved. "We shouldn't have joked about something we know is important to you," he said, his tone quiet but sincere. "It was thoughtless, and we're sorry."

My lips pressed into a thin line, but I didn't waver, keeping my expression neutral.

Rhys took another step forward, his hands open in a gesture of peace. "You've always made it so clear how much you love us, and we let our own egos get in the way. We didn't mean to hurt you, darling."

I glanced at Cassian, who was watching me intently, his earlier playfulness replaced by something more earnest.

"Sweetheart," he said softly, his voice dipping into that gentle tone he used only when it was just the two of us. "You've given us so much of yourself, and we've never once doubted your love. Not really. We were out of line, and I'm sorry."

The sincerity in their voices tugged at my resolve, but I stayed silent, letting the weight of their words settle in the room.

Rhys ran a hand through his hair, glancing at Azriel and Cassian before turning back to me. "We don't deserve you," he said, a wry smile tugging at his lips. "But if there's anything we can do to make it up to you, just say the word."

Azriel's wings shifted, his shadows curling around my ankles like an embrace. "Anything," he murmured, his golden eyes locking onto mine.

Cassian reached for my hand, his thumb brushing over my knuckles as he tilted his head, struck by my silence. "Please, sweetheart. Just tell us what we can do to fix this."

Their pleading was almost enough to break me, but I couldn't resist drawing this out just a little longer. I gave them a small, pointed shrug as if to say, You'll have to figure it out.

Rhys groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "Please, love. Don't torture us," he muttered, though there was no real bite in his tone.

Azriel's lips twitched in what might have been a smirk, his shadows flaring. "She's enjoying this."

I remained silent, my expression unyielding as I tilted my head to glance at him. The playful gleam in his hazel eyes deepened into something darker, something more determined.

"Alright, then," Casisan murmured, his voice a low rumble. "You leave us no choice."

Before I could react, Cassian swooped me into his arms, lowering me onto the plush mattress with a gentleness that belied the heat in his gaze.

Cassian leaned over me, his hands bracketing my hips as he smirked down at me. "I swear to you, we’ll have you screamin’ by the end of the night."

His lips claimed mine with a fervor that left no room for hesitation, his hands tugging my legs apart so he could settle between them. He kissed me like a storm, his tongue sweeping into my mouth with a hunger that made my head spin.

When I refused to make a sound—even as his hand slipped beneath my shirt, brushing over my ribs and upward—his smirk deepened. "Stubborn as ever," he muttered, nipping at my lower lip.

His mouth trailed down my neck, his teeth scraping lightly against my skin before soothing the marks with his tongue. His hands gripped my thighs, spreading me wider as his lips moved lower, leaving a scorching path over my body.

"Still nothing?" he asked, his voice a low growl as he paused just above the waistband of my shorts. "I'll have to try harder."

I didn't get the chance to see Cassian's next move before Azriel stepped in, his shadows swirling around me as he knelt beside the bed. His golden eyes burned as he leaned in, his voice a dark whisper against my ear. "Let me show you what silence gets you, love."

His hands were everywhere—sliding over my hips, gripping my waist, tugging me toward him. The shadow singer's touch was as relentless as the teasing flick of his tongue against my pulse, his teeth grazing the tender skin.

"You can keep quiet all you want," he murmured, his voice sending shivers down my spine. "But I'll make you beg if I have to."

Rhysand was the last to approach, his movements slow and deliberate as he lay at my side. His violet eyes were molten as he cupped my cheek, his thumb brushing over my lips. "Darling," he murmured, his voice like silk. "You've punished us long enough. Don't you think it's time to let us make it up to you?"

He tilted his head, pressing a kiss to the corner of my mouth, then another to my jaw. His hands were a gentle contrast to the sharp edge of his teeth as he bit down lightly on my neck, his lips curling into a satisfied smile when my breath hitched.

"Ah," he purred, pulling back to meet my gaze. "There it is. That little sound you just made—it's a start."

The three of them surrounded me, a seamless symphony of touches and teasing that left my body trembling, and my willpower dangerously close to crumbling. Cassian's strong hands gripped my hips with an unyielding possessiveness, his lips blazing a hot, open-mouthed trail along the sensitive skin of my thighs. His stubble raked against me, the contrast between rough and soft making my breathing falter. Each kiss he pressed lingered, his tongue flicking out to taste my skin as he traveled upward with excruciating slowness, teasing me with the promise of more.

Azriel's shadows slid over my skin like liquid silk, cool tendrils ghosting across the places left untouched by his hands. They tugged at the hem of my dress, easing it upward until it bunched around my waist. His scarred hand palmed my breast beneath the thin fabric of my gown, his thumb brushing over the pebbled peak before pinching it lightly. My body arched instinctively, the sharp jolt of pleasure making my breath catch. He rolled the sensitive bud between his calloused fingers, his grip firm but not rough, as if he was savoring the feel of me.

Rhysand, ever the orchestrator, claimed my lips in a kiss that left me utterly breathless. His mouth was warm and insistent, his tongue sweeping across my bottom lip before dipping inside to tangle with mine. He kissed like he fought—with precision and control, leaving no inch of me unclaimed. His free hand slid into my hair, cradling the back of my head to tilt my face up to his. I could feel the smirk against my lips as he pulled back slightly, his teeth grazing my lower lip before sucking it into his mouth.

Azriel's scarred fingers worked my nipple mercilessly, the sensations sharp and electric. I clenched my eyes shut as Rhysand's mouth moved to the sensitive column of my neck, I bit down hard on my lip to keep from moaning. He nipped at the skin, his teeth grazing the delicate flesh before his tongue licked over the spot to soothe the sting. His lips latched onto the base of my throat, sucking hard enough to leave a mark, and I couldn't stop my back from arching into him. My hand found its way into his midnight-black hair, threading through the soft strands as if I needed something to anchor me.

Below, Cassian was relentless. His large hands slid down my thighs, spreading them wider as he knelt between them, his broad shoulders keeping me open for him. I felt the heat of his breath against my core, and then he was there—his tongue delving between my folds with a hunger that left me gasping. The first swipe was slow, deliberate as if he was savoring the taste of me. He groaned low in his throat, the vibrations sending a shiver up my spine.

"Already so wet, sweetheart," Cassian murmured against my pulsing core, his voice thick with desire.

He latched onto my clit with a fervor that made my head spin, sucking harshly before flicking it with his tongue in quick, teasing strokes. The pressure was perfect, just enough to push me closer to the edge without letting me tumble over. My hips bucked against his mouth, seeking more, but his hands tightened on my thighs, pinning me in place.

Not an inch of me was neglected. Azriel's lips replaced his fingers, the heat of his mouth closing over my nipple as he sucked and flicked his tongue over the sensitive peak. His shadows coiled around my wrists and ankles like silken restraints, adding to the sensation of being completely surrounded. The combination of his rough hands, his soft lips, and the ghostly touch of his shadows made my skin tingle with a heightened awareness.

Rhysand's teeth scraped along my pulse point, his tongue following the path of his bites as he painted my neck with evidence of his attention. Each mark he left sent a fresh wave of heat pooling between my legs, the sensation only amplified by the wicked curve of his lips against my skin. His voice, a deep, seductive purr, wrapped around me like a velvet caress.

"Still so quiet, darling," he murmured against my ear, his breath hot and teasing. "But for how much longer?"

Cassian's tongue thrust into my entrance, and my breathing stopped, halting the desperate cry that threatened to escape. He worked me with an intensity that had my body trembling, his tongue swirling and lapping at me with a precision that only years of experience could bring. The scrape of his teeth against my clit sent sparks of pleasure shooting through me, my legs trembling as I fought to keep my composure. I clamped my lips shut, determined not to give them the satisfaction of hearing me cry out.

Azriel's shadows tightened around my wrists, holding me in place as his free hand trailed down my side, his touch sending shivers across my heated skin. His lips left my breast, his golden eyes dark and heated as he watched me struggle.

"Let it out," he murmured, his voice low and rough. "We want to hear you."

I shook my head stubbornly, even as my body betrayed me, my hips grinding against Cassian's mouth. His deep chuckle rumbled against my core, the sensation pulling another muffled sound from me. Rhysand's smirk was audible in his voice as he tilted my chin up, his violet eyes glowing with wicked delight.

"Stop holding back, darling," he teased, his thumb brushing over my lower lip. "We’ll break you sooner or later, might as well give us what we want."

Cassian's tongue worked me mercilessly, his grip on my thighs unyielding as he kept me spread wide for him. Each stroke of his tongue and suck of his mouth sent me spiraling higher, the coil of tension in my core winding tighter and tighter. Azriel's mouth had moved to my other breast, his teeth grazing the sensitive peak before soothing it with his tongue, while his free hand slipped lower, his scarred fingers skimming over the slick mess Cassian was drawing out of me. Rhysand was still at my neck, his teeth marking a trail up to my ear, where his breath fanned hot against my skin.

My body trembled, overwhelmed by the three of them, every nerve alight with pleasure. The room blurred at the edges, the sensations crashing over me like waves, but still, I clung to my silence, refusing to let them have the satisfaction of hearing me break.

"You're so close, aren't you, darling?" Rhysand's voice was a low purr, dripping with smug satisfaction. His hand slid up my side, his thumb brushing against the swell of my breast, slickness left there from Azriel’s mouth.

I clenched my eyes shut, biting down harder on my lip to keep the desperate moan building in my chest from escaping.

"Not yet," Azriel murmured, his voice rough and amused as his tongue flicked over my nipple. "She can’t come until she begs."

Cassian hummed against my core, the vibrations making my hips buck against his mouth. He pulled back just enough to speak, his lips glistening. "You taste so good, sweetheart," he rumbled, his voice deep and gravelly. "I can feel how close you are. Why don't you use your words and ask for it?"

I shook my head, my breaths coming in short, ragged gasps.

Rhysand chuckled darkly, the sound sending a shiver down my spine. "Oh, love, you should know better than to deny us," he said, his fingers tilting my chin up so I was forced to meet his gaze. His violet eyes were blown with lust, and before I could shield myself, I felt his presence slipping into my mind.

He was using his daemati powers, to show me the lewdest things imaginable. Azriel behind me, his shadows binding my wrists as he thrust into me with that ruthless precision that left me shaking, Rhys beneath me, simultaneously meeting those thrusts as both of them worked me in sync, and Cassian, his head tilted back as he shoved his cock down my throat, hand in my hair, guiding me down inch by inch.

Each vision was more vivid than the last, the sensations blurring with reality until I couldn't tell where the images ended and their touches began. My hips bucked wildly, my body desperate for release as the coil in my core tightened to the breaking point.

"These visions, they can be a reality," Rhysand murmured, his voice soft but teasing. "Just use that pretty voice of yours, yeah?"

Cassian's tongue flicked over my clit in a maddening rhythm, his fingers pressing into my thighs to keep me still. Azriel's teeth scraped over my nipple again, his hand continuing its torment, circling my puffy clit, his shadows trailing over my stomach like phantom touches.

I was on the edge, my body trembling violently as the pleasure built and built, but they held me there, refusing to let me tip over. Cassian pulled back just enough to look up at me, his lips curved in a wicked smile. "Just one word, sweetheart," he said, his voice rough with desire. "Say it, and we'll give you everything you need."

The coil in my core tightened impossibly further, my body arching into their touches as my lips parted, a desperate plea hovering on the tip of my tongue. But still, I held back, clinging to the silence even as I teetered on the brink of shattering.

My willpower crumbled under the weight of their teasing, my need outweighing my pride. My voice was hoarse and breathless as I finally broke.

"Please," I whispered, my voice barely audible.

Cassian paused, his grin triumphant as he leaned closer. "Louder, sweetheart. We need to hear you."

"Please," I gasped, my voice louder this time, my body trembling with need. "Please, I need you. Let me come."

The three of them stilled for a moment, their gazes dark and heated as they exchanged a silent, satisfied look. Then they moved as one, their touches no longer teasing but possessive, determined to give me exactly what I'd begged for.

Cassian wasted no time after my whispered plea. His wicked grin turned feral as he tightened his grip on my thighs, dragging me closer to the edge of the couch until I was back on that brink. His broad shoulders wedged between my legs, and his breath fanned over my slick folds, teasing and hot.

Azriel's hands held my upper body steady as I arched into Cassian's touch, his lips capturing my nipple again, teeth scraping lightly. His shadows coiled around my torso like ribbons, pinning me in place even as they caressed my flushed skin. Rhysand leaned in close, his fingers tangling in my hair as his lips brushed against my ear.

"There's our good girl," Rhys purred, his voice dripping with smug satisfaction. "So loud for us."

Cassian's tongue worked me mercilessly, alternating between plunging deep into my core and swirling over my clit in maddening circles. His hands gripped my thighs tighter, holding me open for him as he devoured me like a feast. His nose pressed against my sensitive bundle of nerves with every movement, and I could feel the growing pressure inside me building to a breaking point.

I pulled at my restraints, needing him impossibly closer. "Cassian," I whimpered, my voice breaking as he sucked my clit into his mouth, his tongue flicking over it in rapid, devastating strokes.

"That's it, sweetheart," he growled against me, his voice rough and ragged. "Come for me. Let me taste all of you."

The coil in my core tightened, snapping with a force that left me gasping. My release crashed over me, waves of pleasure tearing through my body as I cried out, trembling uncontrollably. Cassian groaned in satisfaction, his mouth never leaving me as he licked and sucked, drawing out every last shudder of my climax.

"Look at her," Azriel murmured, his voice thick with desire as he watched me fall apart. "So perfect."

Rhysand's grin was wicked as his thumb brushed over my parted lips. "She's exquisite when she lets herself go," he said, his voice low and reverent.

Cassian finally pulled back, his lips glistening as he looked up at me with a triumphant smirk. "Sweetest thing I've ever tasted," he said, his voice rough with satisfaction. "And I'm not done with you yet."

Azriel and Rhysand exchanged a knowing look, their hands already moving to shift me into a new position, their gazes dark with intent.

"You want that vision, darling?" Rhysand asked, his tone teasing but filled with promise. "Want all three of us at once?"

I looked up at him, legs still shaky as I nodded my head with bright eyes.

The three of them wasted no time shifting me into position, their hands working seamlessly as though they had done this a thousand times before, making quick work of discarding their pants as well as the rest of their clothes.

Rhysand guided me onto my hands and knees, his strong hands gripping my waist as he positioned himself beneath me on the mattress cover. His violet eyes sparkled with mischief and raw hunger as he pulled me astride him, his hard length pressing insistently against my slick entrance.

Azriel knelt behind me, his shadows curling possessively around my body, brushing over my skin like phantom hands. His warm, scarred fingers traced the curve of my hips as he pressed his chest against my back, the heat of his cock brushing against my back entrance.

Cassian stood at the edge of the bed, before me, his thick member already glistening with arousal. He stroked himself slowly, his predatory gaze locked on my face. "You've been holding out on us all day, sweetheart," he murmured, his voice deep and commanding. "But not anymore. Let's hear every single sound you've been hiding."

Rhysand grasped my chin, tilting my face toward him for a slow, sensual kiss. "Let go for us, darling," he whispered against my lips, his tone dripping with authority. "We'll take care of you."

I barely had time to nod before Rhys lifted my hips and thrust into me, filling me completely with one fluid motion. My moan was immediate, loud, and unrestrained as my head fell back.

"There she is," Rhys purred, his hands guiding my hips to roll against him. "So good for us."

Azriel pressed his cock against my other entrance, his fingers spreading me open with slow, teasing strokes. "Relax for me, love," he murmured, his breath hot against my ear. "Let me in."

I gasped as he pushed inside, the stretch making me tremble as he filled me. The sensation of both of them moving within me was too much, my body tightening around them as pleasure ignited every nerve, a burning sensation ran its way through me.

After not having them for a week, gods it was like the first time again.

"Fuck," Azriel growled, his hands gripping my hips as he thrust slowly, building a rhythm that matched Rhysand's. "So tight, so perfect for us."

Cassian stepped closer, his hand tangling in my hair as he guided me toward his thick length. "Open up, sweetheart," he commanded, his voice rough with desire. "I want to feel that pretty mouth."

I obeyed without hesitation, taking him into my mouth and moaning around him as his taste flooded my senses. He groaned, his hips rocking gently as he set a steady pace, his hand tightening in my hair.

The three of them worked in perfect harmony, their bodies moving against mine as I moaned and whimpered, unable to hold back the flood of sounds that spilled from my lips. Rhysand's hips snapped upward, his cock hitting that spot inside me that made stars burst behind my eyes. Azriel's thrusts grew deeper, his growls vibrating against my back as his fingers dug into my skin.

Cassian's hand cradled my jaw, his thumb brushing over my cheek as he pushed deeper into my mouth. "That's it," he murmured, his voice thick with praise. "Take all of us, sweetheart. Let us hear how good we make you feel."

The overstimulation was overwhelming, the constant assault of pleasure pushing me over the edge again and again. My body shook with every orgasm, my moans turning into cries of ecstasy as they drove me higher, their touches unrelenting.

"Look at her," Azriel rasped, his shadows coiling tighter around me. "She's perfect like this, falling apart for us."

Rhysand's grin was wicked as he rolled his hips, drawing another scream from my throat. "Ours," he declared, his violet eyes dark with possession.

Cassian thrust deeper, his cock filling my mouth as he growled, "She's lovin’ every second of it."

My cries grew louder, my body writhing as they pushed me to the brink again and again, their movements synchronized to keep me hovering on the edge of bliss. The floodgates had opened, and there was no stopping the torrent of pleasure and sounds they pulled from me, each one more desperate and raw than the last.

I was theirs completely, and they were determined to claim every inch of me.

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triphantoms · 5 months ago

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I'm at Maruki's palace right now...

Sumire. I'm so sorry for everything you went through.

And I have to say.. I absolutely agree with Maruki. Who doesn't want. Perfect world?

You agree with him? You know the world can still be good with imperfections. You cannot know true happiness when there is no sadness.

- Akechi 🐦‍⬛

It's okay! I'm recovering, so I'll be okay.

- Sumire ❤️

#goro akechi #crow p5 #sumire yoshizawa #violet persona 5 #p5r #persona 5 royal #persona 5 #ask me anything #asks #ask blog

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damneddamsy · 9 months ago

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second sight | cregan stark x oc (part iii)

a/n: on today's episode of Stark Fluff, resident kook Claere visits the Wall and witnesses Northern justice, and lovestruck Cregan tries to learn Valyrian and gets jealous of the Crows

Summer snow in the heart of the North was a season of unyielding cold, where the land itself seemed to freeze beneath a heavy mantle of snow. The sky hung low and grey, reluctant to grant even a sliver of sun, while the wind howled through the stone walls of Winterfell, a biting reminder that the North held no mercy. Amidst the deepening frost, something warmer had begun to take root between Cregan and Claere Stark—an affection borne not of grand gestures, but of small, intimate exchanges that spoke louder than words.

For all her quietude and mystery, the Lady of Winterfell was in no way lacking in depth when it came to reciprocating care for her husband. She offered him a token of her trust, a fragment of her homeland—an elegant Valyrian steel dagger, its hilt wrapped in dragonhide, studded in jade, smelted from the ancient jewellery passed down from her grandsire, the king. She placed it into his hands one evening, her eyes averted, as though the act was more personal than she could bear.

"For your protection," she had said to him.

Concealing his astonishment, Cregan weighed the weapon between his hands and gave the dagger a twirl, deliberately exaggerated, flipping it neatly in the air and catching it with ease.

"A fine gift, princess. For my protection, is it?" Cregan asked, letting his tone take on a mischievous lilt. “But what if I prick my finger on it? Will that not cut me down faster than any enemy blade?"

Her eyes barely twitched, the ghost of a smile, though she quickly composed herself. "'Tis a poor fate to befell the Warden of the North."

Cregan grinned, clearly not deterred. "Ah, but think of it, princess. The songs they’d sing. The tales they'd spread. ‘Here lies Cregan Stark—felled not by sword or spear, but by his own sweet wife’s kindness.’"

He flourished the dagger once more, this time pretending to struggle with the spin, catching it just before it slipped from his hand. Claere’s eyes flickered, the faintest hint of something like amusement crossing her face, though it vanished almost as quickly as it came.

Cregan's grin widened as he gave the dagger one final twirl, his eyes sparkling with mischief. In a sudden, fluid motion, using her distraction as his upper hand, he reached out, grabbing Claere by the waist. Before she could react, he spun her around with stunning grace, pulling her close and setting the blade gently against her side.

Claere's violet eyes widened, not in fear, but in something far more difficult to decipher—curiosity, perhaps, or a faint tremor of excitement. The blade hovered against her ribs, cool and sharp, though Cregan wielded it with such care it felt more like a caress than a threat. The space between them had all but disappeared, the heat of his body pressing against hers.

“If anyone here requires protection,” he teasingly murmured, his breath warm against her ear, “it’s you. Not me.”

Her gaze stayed steady, unfazed, though the faintest flutter in her breath betrayed her. He never realized that her silvern hair was perfumed, a sweetness he could not pinpoint, maddening. Her posture remained unmoving and composed, slender hands grasping at his blade-bearing forearm.

“You think me vulnerable when I command the greatest strength in Westeros,” she finally said, her voice as calm as ever, though there was a hint of challenge beneath her tone.

He leaned in closer, the edge of the dagger still digging into her snug bodice. “Unless you mean to run to your dragon like a scalded little cat, princess. You cannot always hide behind your beast.”

Her lips parted as if to speak, but the words seemed to catch in her throat, her breath shallowing in the shared tension of the moment. The fire crackled softly in the background, the room growing still as Cregan’s grip on her waist tightened ever so slightly. How he was sorely tempted to close the last of the stretch between hem, to let his lips brush against the softness of hers until the cold North cannot separate them.

“And what of you, my lord?” she asked.

"What of me?" he breathed out.

"Can I run to you instead?"

His breath caught, and for a moment, the bravado melted away. He lifted the dagger, its hilt resting gently beneath her chin as he tilted her face to meet his gaze. His eyes, so often hard and stern, softened as he took in the sight of her, so close, so strangely unknowable.

“Always,” he promised, his voice barely audible.

It was said that the dagger gleamed proudly upon his sword belt the very next day, brandishing his gilded Valyrian glory like the dragonlords themselves had left their mark on him—no less intriguing than the woman he had married. It was a turn for the better in the northern lord. A man once shaped by duty and honour, hardened by the unforgiving land he ruled, Cregan knew how to lead, how to fight, how to protect. But Claere, with her violet eyes and sweet secrets, had changed him in ways not easily seen. She hadn’t softened him or drawn him from his duties—no, she had subtly unravelled him, like a thread pulled from tightly woven cloth.

Where once his thoughts had been consumed by Winterfell and its people, now they often lingered on her. And in thinking of her, he had begun to find a balance—between the weight of his responsibilities and the stirrings of something far more dangerous: the pull of his heart.

One cold morning, Cregan was in the yard, overseeing the training of new recruits, the frost-covered ground crunching underfoot, when the call came from a council member.

"A raven from Castle Black, my lord," the maester said, holding out the sealed scroll.

His brows were drawn in concern, and that alone set Cregan’s teeth on edge. Taking the letter, he broke the black wax seal with the direwolf sigil, his eyes scanning the missive. He read swiftly, his face hardening with each line.

"A matter concerning the Lord Commander?" He folded the letter and faced the concerned maester. "A dispute among the men, perhaps. He says something is amiss."

"Might you take Lady Stark with you to the Wall?" the maester suggested, hesitant.

"To the Wall..." he muttered, his thoughts reeling.

The idea of taking Claere to such a desolate, dangerous place—so far removed from Winterfell, from everything familiar—felt like madness. He couldn't picture her, with her quiet reserve and mysterious nature, fitting in among the men of the Night's Watch.

His jaw tensed further. His tone was sharp, almost defensive. "What use would she have there?"

But the maester held firm. "Lady Stark has already decided to fly her dragon beyond the Wall to hunt," he said, his voice measured, though a hint of concern lingered. "It may be wise for you to accompany her. The timing is fortuitous, my lord."

Cregan sighed, his chest tight. He had known for days now that this moment was coming, that Claere’s choice was set in stone. That beast had been restless for weeks. And Claere herself was determined to venture north, beyond the Wall, to hunt in the frozen wastes.

"It is inevitable," Cregan said quietly, more to himself than the maester.

His eyes darkened as the dragon's immense shadow soared above their heads just then, buffeting out a terrible gust over the castle, Claere riding high on Luna's back, disappearing into the clouds. He didn’t have a choice. This was unavoidable.

"Then we shall go together," he relented at last, his voice low.

The wind was biting as they rode north on their harrowing three-week journey to the Wall, their hot breaths visible in the morning air. Cregan rode beside Claere, their horses galloping in sync while the guards followed at a deferent distance. She had abandoned any appeals to ride in the warmth of a wheelhouse or even take to the skies on her dragon and fly ahead, preferring instead the unforgiving saddle at his side, in the cold. Though no one had questioned it, Cregan alone understood the motive behind her choice.

She wanted to be here—with him. The stillness between them was comfortable, the cold air nipping at their faces, only broken by the rhythmic sound of hooves crunching through the frozen ground. Cregan’s heart warmed beneath his layers of fur, his eyes briefly catching hers before returning to the path ahead. She wouldn’t ask for more, but in choosing the saddle, she had said enough.

It was not something Claere would ever say aloud, nor would she offer explanations, but he knew. Subtly her gaze lingered on him longer than necessary or the way she matched his horse's trot, never too far ahead or behind—there was charming purpose.

Claere tilted her head, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye. "You’re pronouncing it wrong again," she murmured, her tone soft but teasing.

"It was practically an echo," he defended.

"Say it again."

Cregan huffed, a grin twitching at the corners of his mouth as he tried to repeat the phrase she had just taught him. Never in his life did he imagine he’d be learning High Valyrian on the way to Castle Black.

"Ānogar hen... zouldrīzes," he said, his Northern accent weighing down the syllables.

"Gentler. High Valyrian is spoken like silk, not iron. Here—" Her voice dipped into that fluid, irresistible cadence as she repeated the word. "Zaldrīzes."

He looked at her, taking in the way her wind-tousled hair framed her face, the subtle curve of her lips as they formed words from a language older than his line. She was still a mystery to him, but moments like this—when her guard was down, and they shared something as simple as language—felt like a step closer to understanding her.

"Ānogar hen zaldrīzes," he repeated, mimicking her softer tone this time, coming closer to her lilting precision.

"Much better," she nodded, her lips curving ever so slightly, the closest thing to a laugh he had coaxed from her in days. She had a way of teaching him that made it feel like time slowed, patient and unhurried, as though there were no wars, no winters to come.

Cregan shook his head, a quiet chuckle escaping him. "What the hell am I even saying?"

"Blood of the dragon," she replied simply.

He leaned in closer, his breath fogging in the cold air. "Go on. Teach me something more than that, something to certainly impress my fussy lady wife."

Claere’s cheeks pinkened slightly, though whether from his words or the cold he couldn’t tell. Her gaze lingered on his, the briefest flicker of mischief in those violet eyes as she seemed to consider his request.

"Sōnar māzis," she said at last.

"Sōnar māzis," he repeated, his Northern tongue struggling with the softer syllables, but he managed it with a proud grin. "And what might that mean, then? Did you just tell me to fuck off?"

Her faint smile deepened, her eyes glinting as she glanced at him beneath her hood. "Winter is coming."

Cregan raised an eyebrow, a hearty laugh bubbling out of him. "Impudence. So you’re teaching me my own words now?"

Her lips twitched, her gaze betraying a rare hint of humour. "I am only fulfilling my lord husband’s request."

"Well, your lord valzȳrys appreciates your patience," he said, the High Valyrian word for ‘husband’ falling from his lips with surprising ease.

Claere’s eyes twinkled with quiet amusement as she looked down, biting the inside of her cheek, though the smile lingered.

Cregan couldn't help but feel lighter. Even in the gruelling cold, the relentless wind cutting at their faces, there was a gaiety to these moments with her that made the journey easier to bear.

The road stretched endlessly before them, each night colder than the last. They stayed in small inns along the way as shelter—meagre tents were no place for a princess to stay in—tough dwellings where the air reeked of smoke and old ale, where the beds were too hard, and the cold seemed to seep into the shallow bones despite the hearths. Cregan had taken to having his men lock their chambers from the outside, an order issued firmly. It was not the home Claere knew, not Winterfell, not the strange, lonely halls where she roamed at night without restraint, eyes glazed, her body moving with a will of its own as if pulled by unseen strings.

And tonight was no different.

Cregan awoke to the soft thud of her knuckles rapping against the door, over and over again. The sound was soft at first, a gentle request. Please. He opened his eyes to the dim glow of the dying fire in the hearth, the familiar chill pressing against his skin despite the furs piled atop him. Please go. The knocking continued, persistent but hollow, as if she was beckoning something beyond the wood.

He sat up slowly, rubbing a hand over his face. Claere stood at the door, her silver hair tangled and tousled, her form almost wraithlike in the half-light of the room. She knocked again, her hand trembling. Please.

“Claere,” Cregan’s voice was hoarse from sleep as he swung his legs out of bed and rose to his feet. Again, and again, he thought in exhaustion.

She didn’t respond, didn’t even acknowledge him. She was lost in a dream. Her other hand rested on the door, her body swaying slightly as she mumbled something beneath her breath. It was a strange, disjointed whisper—words too faint for him to catch fully but they held an omen, a warning. He heard fragments.

The long night… shadows in the woods… they're coming...

His heart clenched, pity creeping up his spine. He hated to see her like this, trapped in some half-waking nightmare, her mind far away from him, from this place.

“Claere, come back to bed,” he called again, his voice softer as he crossed the room. When he reached her, he gently took hold of her hand, guiding it away from the door. She didn’t resist, but her eyes never fully opened, her lips still moving with broken words.

“It's coming for us, the cold dark,” she hummed a dire tune beneath her breath. “There is no light to flee to, no light.” Her voice trailed off, then her head lolled against his shoulder. "I need to see..."

Cregan’s grip on her tightened, his breath catching in his throat. There was always a touch of the uncanny about her, her Valyrian blood threading through her dreams like unclear rivers. The North held many ancient stories, and none of them were comforting. He feared these dreams were more than just the ramblings of a disturbed mind, feared she spoke of things deeper, older than he could understand. But he couldn’t let her drift further into the dream’s grip. Not here. Not now.

“Come, love,” he murmured, pulling her gently from the door and leading her back to the bed. His voice was calm, though his heart was pounding. “You’re safe here. There's no darkness. You're with me."

She didn’t oppose but obeyed him, her feet dragging slightly on the wooden floor as he guided her to sit on the edge of the bed. Her hands still trembled, her gaze distant as she continued to hum to herself.

“Winter takes them all. Ice… shadows in the snow… a frozen fire…”

Cregan sat beside her, his hands brushing the wild hair from her face. He forced a smile, blowing into her cold hands to warm them up between his. “The Long Night is far from us. You’ll see no shadows here. Only me.”

She was still caught in the web of her dreams, but his voice seemed to calm her. Slowly, her murmurs quieted, her head dipping forward into his chest as fatigue took hold. Cregan coaxed her softly, laying her back against the furs, tucking her in as if she were a child, her slender body looking far too fragile against the rails of the hard bed.

He sat there for a moment longer, watching her sleep, her breathing finally steadying. The firelight flickered nearby, casting long shadows over her pale face. His mind was far from at ease. Claere was no stranger to abnormal dreams, \but the words words she had spoken rattled him, more than he wanted to admit. It was as if the North itself whispered through her, the gravity of ancient things pressing down on her small frame.

Cregan ran a hand through his hair, sighing heavily. He despised this; containing her whims. But this was not home, these were unfamiliar lands, and the cold could swallow her whole if she were not mindful.

“Dreamy girl,” he whispered through a grin, though she was fast asleep. Wielding her languor, he leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead, feeling the coldness of her smooth skin seep into his lips. He didn't want to pull away.

As they pressed on toward Castle Black, the weather only worsened—snow thickening, the path harder to tread. Their cloaks grew heavy with frost, and the icy air stung their skin. Yet through it all, Luna soared overhead, a silver cloud against the wintry sky, watchful and protective of her rider, as though even the beast understood that this journey required more than just fire and flight.

They rode side by side, close enough that their knees sometimes brushed, the subtle connection grounding Cregan as the world grew ever colder around them. Claere’s quiet presence had a way of making the stinging chill seem less wild, the wind less cruel.

At long last, after what felt like an eternity of braving the elements, the morbid outline of the Wall's ghost castles loomed ahead, the long gears of steel clanks running along the centre of the Wall that gleamed blue and crystalline in the sunlight. The miles-long, forbidding structure stood in stark contrast to the frozen wilderness, and Cregan felt a sense of grim duty settling over him once more. This was truly the edge of the world, and the sharp air seemed to echo that truth.

As they entered the courtyard through the hoisted gates, the Lord Commander, a grizzled, weathered man with a face lined by years of winter and duty, stepped off the barracks to greet them. His eyes landed on Cregan first, but they quickly shifted to Claere, widening in surprise. He had not expected to see her here. A Targaryen princess at the Wall was a rare enough sight, one they had not welcomed for ages, let alone the Lady of Winterfell. The presence of a woman, especially one so reserved and strange, stirred an undercurrent of whispers among the black-clad men watching from the shadows of the courtyard.

"Lord Stark," the Lord Commander greeted, his voice rough with age and the weight of command. His eyes darted again to Claere, his brows furrowing. "Princess… a surprise, indeed. Welcome to Castle Black."

"It's Lady Stark," Cregan corrected forthwith.

Claere remained the epitome of composure, her expression abstruse as ever, her violet eyes scanning the walls, the men, and the bleak surroundings. She was more out of place here than at Winterfell—there were no other women, and the Night’s Watch had not hosted nobility in quite some time, especially not one so mysterious, so… unflinchingly Targaryen.

Cregan alighted his horse, extending his hands to her waist in support, though Claere barely needed it. Her movements were nimble and deliberate. She landed beside him in a sweep of skirts, her gaze lingering on the Lord Commander for a moment before she offered him a slight curtsey.

"She is here to hunt beyond the Wall," Cregan explained, his tone casual though there was an unmistakable note of pride in his voice. "Her dragon will keep us company until our stay has ended."

The Lord Commander's lips tightened, his gaze flicking uneasily from Claere to the sky, where Luna circled like a silvern omen, roaring out deafening growls.

His gruff voice followed soon. "Aye, quite the companion. But, Lord Stark..." He hesitated, leaning closer, his voice dropping to a whisper, careful to keep out of Claere's earshot. "Taking a lady beyond the Wall, especially one unversed in the perils—it’s no place for her. Even my rangers can’t ensure her safety, with or without us. The risk is too great."

Cregan caught the underlying doubt, the old-fashioned notion that a woman, no matter her bloodline, had no business in the wilds. His jaw tightened, his grey eyes hard.

"My lady wife's mount is the White Dread," Cregan said evenly. "A dragon nigh as fierce as the one who scorched Harrenhal. Tell me again if you think she needs your rangers to protect her."

He stepped closer, his voice low and steady, but with the authority of the King in the North. "The decision is made. The Night's Watch may govern its own, but remember—these are Stark lands. These are my people. And my house honours the strength of all its kin."

The Lord Commander bristled but said nothing, merely nodding curtly. He understood the threatening significance of Cregan’s words—that the authority of House Stark in the North was conclusive, and any further protest would be taken as a challenge.

Cregan held his steely gaze for a beat longer before turning back to Claere, his hand relaxing protectively on the hilt of his sword. Luna’s shadow passed overhead again, a loud reminder of the strength she came bearing.

Claere remained silent, her attention focused elsewhere, though she could feel the stares around her. Cregan moved closer to her, his hand brushing her tensed spine in a modest gesture of reassurance, and though she didn’t react outwardly, he sensed that she took some comfort in it.

"Come along," he murmured to her.

As they made their way through the courtyard, the Night’s Watchmen continued to steal glances at Claere, awed and sceptical. But she walked beside Cregan with her peace, head held high as if she were oblivious to their scrutiny. He was accustomed to seeing this, it was the armoured expression she bore at home as well.

For all the severity of the journey and the stony welcome of the Wall, their moments only worsened. The Lord Commander had led them through the frozen courtyard, past the rookery, into another training square, towards a group of scruffy, tired men bound at the wrists. The air hung uneasily with tension as the three accused were lined up, their heads bowed beneath the weight of their crimes.

“They were caught plotting desertion into the wildling lands,” the Lord Commander grumbled to Cregan, his breath clouding in the cold air. “The punishment is death. We serve justice swiftly here, my lord, as you know.”

Cregan nodded, though his thoughts immediately drifted to Claere, who stood quietly by his side, her gaze already fixed on the bound men in the yard. She was observant, her violet eyes missing nothing, but Cregan wondered how she would react to what was about to unfold. Being a Targaryen, she was no stranger to violence—King’s Landing had certainly shown her enough of that—but this was different. The North demanded a harsher brand of justice, one that came without the pomp and ceremony of the South. Here, the punishment was raw and prompt.

His stomach tightened at the thought of her watching him carry out a beheading, especially so soon after arriving. But this was the North, and this was the way of things.

The Lord Commander’s eyes slid toward Claere, his tone lowering, a trace of something biting in his words. “You ought to carry it out soon enough. Thought it wise to inform you, seeing as you’ve brought your lady wife.”

There was an edge to his voice that didn’t go unnoticed by Cregan. The man was testing him—his pride clearly still stung from their earlier exchange—and now he was trying to make a point as if to say, You think she’s up to the task? Let her see the real cruelties of the world you boast of.

Cregan’s jaw tightened. He wouldn’t allow Claere to be disgraced in this way, nor would he let her be forced into witnessing something she wasn’t prepared for. But now that the challenge had been laid out, she could not very well step aside. It was a calculated slight, designed to unsettle them both.

Claere, however, made no indication that she had picked up on the tension. Her composure remained unshaken, her eyes briefly meeting Cregan’s before flicking back to the prisoners.

“The sentence will be carried out. We will see justice here tonight,” Cregan announced firmly, his voice collected, though a flicker of dread ran through him.

He glanced at Claere once more, his heart hammering beneath his furs. The Lord Commander might have forced his hand, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t protect her where he could.

The men to be executed were brought forth, their faces hollow with fear and resignation. The bound prisoners knelt before the chopping block, their breaths coming in fast, ragged puffs. The yard was eerily silent, all their dreading regards turning to Cregan as he stepped toward them.

But before he took his place to offer the verdict, Cregan turned back to Claere. There was a moment of hesitation in his gaze as he approached her, brushing a gloved hand across her arm in a subtle gesture. She turned her head slightly, her violet eyes meeting his in quiet question.

Without a word, he nodded toward his men, issuing a silent command. They understood him immediately. Two of his loyal lads stepped forward, their movements discreet, and gently led Claere a few paces away. Not far, but enough that her line of sight would be slightly obscured.

She didn’t protest, but she didn’t look away either. Her gaze remained focused, though Cregan could sense her tense scrutiny. She wasn’t afraid, that much was certain, but he wondered what she truly thought of the disparity between the judicious world of her ancestors and the brutal pragmatism of the North.

With one final glance toward her, Cregan turned his attention back to the condemned men, snivelling out pleas of mercy. Of words to be sent to their families.

His voice rang out over the yard, presiding over the murmuring men of the Night's Watch, commanding and final.

“Let it be known that your brothers have been found guilty of desertion and treason. By the laws of the North, and by the vows they swore, their lives are forfeit.” He inhaled a sharp breath, addressing the doomed men now. "I, Cregan of the House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, sentence you to die."

The greatsword, Ice, glinted in the faint light of the yard, ready to deliver the mandate. Cregan lifted it high, the significance of the act pressing on him as it always did. He had done this plenty of times before. This was justice, and justice had to be done, but knowing that Claere was nearby, even out of his sight, made it feel different this time. He couldn’t explain why, but the feeling sat with him, solemn as Ice in his hands.

With a swift, practised stroke, the sword came down three times—with no leave—and the courtyard returned to its stern silence. Blood had strewed a good foot onto the frost, lifeless heads toppling and rolling off the blocks.

Cregan exhaled a long one, the tension slowly bleeding from his shoulders. He would have to shrug it off once again, take it like a king. Soon, the men's lopped bodies were gathered up to be torched in a lonesome procession.

When he looked up, he saw Claere watching him. Though she had been pulled back, her violet eyes lingered on him, as if mulling over what she had seen. He couldn’t tell if she approved or not, but in her inscrutable way, she didn’t seem disturbed. She simply was—a stillness in the storm.

After a moment, she gave him a slight, affirming nod, a gesture so small yet somehow momentous. Whatever had transpired between them, it had not shocked her.

But Cregan’s thoughts dimmed as he glimpsed the Lord Commander, who gave him a thin-lipped smirk of approval. He had gotten what he wanted, though it left a bitter taste in Cregan’s mouth.

As he sheathed Ice, his fingers brushed the Valyrian dagger Claere had gifted him. Soon her own gentle touch replaced it, having come to his side, sensing his apprehension.

"I apologize for what you had to bear witness," he said, cautious and quiet. "Did you look away?"

She shook her head in a silent response. A miserable sigh escaped him, proven right.

Yet when she risked a glance up at him, her gaze was calm, not a trace of concern there. "Your apologies go in vain, my lord. Justice is the same, no matter where it is served."

He hovered his hand near her cheek, aching to touch her, to find solace in her presence. But just as quickly, he fisted and dropped it. His hands, stained with blood and burdened with the affliction of the life taken, had no right to reach for her. Not now. Not when the bloodstained steel still lingered in his grip.

"Go," he muttered, stepping aside to make room for her. "Get warm. The captain will see you to your lodging."

Claere lingered for a heartbeat, her gaze fixed on him, wariness flickering in her eyes. But without a word, she complied, turning away and heading towards the wooden barracks, her form disappearing into the shadows of the dimming day.

The morning was bitterly cold, the early rays of sun barely cutting through the thick frost clinging to the stone walls. Inside the mess hall, Cregan sat at a long wooden table, surrounded by his guard and the timeworn members of the Night’s Watch. Plates of thick, greasy meat and stale bread were passed around, the clink of mugs and the low murmur of conversation filling the room.

Cregan stared at his plate, sleepless thoughts drifting back to the bloodshed of the night before. After that, Claere had been inconsolable, more jittery than usual, her sleep broken by quiet mumbles that filled their chamber, moaning and somnambulating once again, striking at the bolted door.

The Wall—its archaic, frozen weight bearing down on them—seemed to beckon her. It ground at her spirit, pulled at her, leaving him helpless beside her. He couldn’t shake the feeling that the cold, endless stretch beyond was reaching for her, trying to draw her into its depths. All he could do was watch.

He had watched over her, lain awake, unable to rest. Every time she cringed and whimpered, he reached out, touched her face, and soothed her back to silence. But it was no use. Even in sleep, she was not at peace. All his strength meant nothing before her, not when the battle was in her mind.

The meal before him—charred meat, stale bread—was untouched. He speared a piece absentmindedly, his gaze fixed on the door. The hall grew quieter as Claere entered as if answered upon his call, her presence commanding the room in a way only royalty could.

She moved with an effortless grace, her dragonrider’s leathers of red and gold clinging to her like a second skin, a vivid flame against the bleakness of Castle Black. She was a fire in the heart of ice, a sight too bright for this grey, cold place.

It gnawed at him, the way they looked at her. Vows or not, they were still men—tempted, starving. He saw it in their eyes, the way they shifted, attempting not to stare but failing. Claere was unlike anything they had ever seen, no Northman’s daughter draped in modest furs or woollen layers. She was a dragon, forged in fire and blood, a queen among crows.

He hated it. Hated how they dared to want what was his. A furious wish flickered in him then. Let them see her as she truly was, as he sometimes did—the unnatural, quiet woman who spoke to shadows and sang her cruel songs. Let them think this radiant, untouchable creature mad. Better that than desire. Better fear than the thought they could ever have her.

He turned back to his plate, though the food had lost all appeal. His hands itched with the urge to reach for her, to pull her closer, claim her in a way that would leave no doubt in their minds. But he restrained himself.

She approached Cregan, her path instinctual. Without a word, she sat beside him, her hand reaching for a piece of bread—the only food she could stomach amongst the heavy, greasy fare. As she tore a small piece, a slight grimace creased at her brows. It drove all those farcical feelings of envy right out of his mind.

"Luna causing you too much trouble?" he asked, trying to make his tone light. He carefully unhusked a boiled egg and placed it beside her bread, pushing his little glass of goat's milk before her.

She poked her knife at the egg, as though she was too drained to even slice the egg herself. "I was too wearied to ride her this morning."

Cregan’s eyes flicked over Claere, her words lingering as they sat in the dim hall. He could feel her taut exhaustion, even if she masked it beneath her calm demeanour.

He felt a knot twist tighter in his chest. "You barely slept last night, and neither did I."

"Unfamiliar country," she reasoned.

He sighed, grazing his hand over her warm cheek and hair. Her sleeplessness was clear in the pallor of her cheeks, the faint circles under her eyes.

"I admire your resolve endlessly. There's no need to compel yourself, princess; and certainly no need to go chasing shadows and omens. It's not worth it."

Her eyes flickered—barely—but the ghost of a smile touched her lips, fleeting and strange. "You sound like her."

"Who?"

"My delirious mother."

He exhaled hard, trying to keep the frustration out of his voice. "I fear losing you to whatever it is that rips at your mind. Past here, is a vast unknown. The world is dangerous enough without stepping into places best left forgotten."

Claere looked at him, her violet eyes undisturbed but faint. She was quiet for a moment as if considering her response carefully before she cut into the untouched egg on her plate.

"I am quite fine with danger, my lord. I have faced plenty under the guise of my uncles." Her words were barely louder than a breath, but there was a firmness there.

He would not have one bit of this. Cregan’s grip tightened on her hand, trying to ground her to the moment, to bring her back from whatever obscure force she felt. His gaze searched her face, looking for a way to persuade her otherwise.

"Please," he said; almost pleading. Would that not be a sight to behold, a begging Stark.

Her gaze lowered briefly, her fingers brushing his knuckles in a small, almost tentative movement.

“I know I’m not strong, not like you are,” she murmured, her voice meek, but unyielding. "But I must see what lies beyond. I feel it too keenly to ignore. It will not let me rest."

Cregan loomed atop the Wall, the winds cutting through his furs and coat of plates, but his intentions never wavered. His grey gaze tracked as Luna, immense and white against the grey sky, ascended higher and higher from the snowbound plains beyond Moletown.

He followed them, unblinking as Luna triumphantly soared overhead, without putting up much of a fight. The sheer size of her—vast leathery wings cutting through the air—was enough to make the ground beneath him tremble with an almost deafening rush of wind. He could almost sense her fire on his skin, a living furnace against the winter. Her wings stretched wide, casting a shadow that nearly engulfed this portion of the Wall whole, even the cold, old skeleton was dwarfed by her presence. The men around him were silent, awestruck, but Cregan’s focus was fixed solely on Claere. All he could think of was her—Claere, commanding that immense beast, a mere speck on its back, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, flying into the unknown, facing it all.

Until they became no more than a shadow against the vast expanse of the wilderness beyond. His jaw clenched, eyes squinting against the wind, every muscle tense.

"Perhaps it is best if we leave the vigil to the scouts, my lord," the captain suggested.

He tossed him a vague smile. "Aye, it would be."

The hours crawled on, the cold biting deeper as Cregan remained rooted to the lookout post, eyes fixed on the horizon. The guard and the Watchmen lingered nearby, wild and tense, but none dared to speak. The only sound was the occasional distant roar of Luna, carried on the wind like an augury. It was a sound that rattled through the Wall, but it gave no answers. Was she hunting? Fighting? In peril? Cregan could not tell. His mind conjured images of Claere lost in the belly of that icy void, surrounded by darkness from her dreams, beyond even the dragon's protection. His jaw clenched against the rising panic—he couldn't show it, not to his men, not to himself. Yet every minute stretched thin, a tightness growing in his chest as the sun slipped toward the horizon, casting the Wall in long, threatening shadows.

At last, as the sun bled into the sky, they finally saw it; both victorious rider and steed.

"Dragon!" someone yelled, out of the blue.

Cregan looked up from the little furnace that warmed his gloved hands, ardent grey eyes observing the skies.

Luna’s silver wings broke through the golden skies, finding the light, and cutting an immense curve against the darkening clouds. The dragon’s landing sent a gust of frigid wind over the Wall, roaring out a rattling growl, her claws digging deep into the ancient stone. Cregan exhaled out a visible gust of air, the breath he'd been holding in for a long time as Claere nimbly dismounted, scarcely before Luna was lighted. She moved without hesitation, her steps measured, calm—but her face was pale, and there was a strange detachment in her eyes.

Powerless to his dying reign, Cregan strode to her, his heart pounding, hands shaking as he drew her into his arms. The relief was almost agonising as it flooded him like some forgone part of him had clicked itself back into place. He caught her chin to press kisses wherever he managed; at her hair, nose, brows, and cheeks; even that did not sate him.

"Claere."

Her name was breath on his lips, but she remained still in his arms, her gaze distant, as if her body was here and her mind elsewhere. He grasped her tighter, embracing her empty face to his neck, unable to stop the trembling in his hands. She was safe, unharmed, but it felt like a hollow victory. Something was wrong.

“Nothing,” she whispered, so faint he would've missed it. “I saw no one. There was nothing.”

Cregan pulled back, searching her face. He had expected triumph, or maybe exhaustion—but not this. Her words hung between them, cold and hollow. Did she see something out there? Something too terrible to speak of? Or was it worse—was it the absence of anything that disturbed her?

“Nothing,” he echoed, unsure of what to say, but his voice trailed off as she finally met his gaze.

And then, softly, for the first time, between chattering lips and falling darkness, she spoke his name. Time and stars could've condensed into nothing, it could not stand to compare.

“Cregan,” she murmured, her voice fragile, her eyes unfocused. “I want to go back to Winterfell. I want to go home.”

The words struck him harder than any blade. She had never called it home before, never spoken his name with such tranquil verity. In all her shroud of menacing whispers and oddities, she was his. And now, in her own way, she was telling him that he was hers, that Winterfell was hers.

He cupped her face, his thumb brushing her cheek, overwhelmed with a fondness he had seldom regarded before.

“We’ll go home, love,” he promised, his voice hoarse.

But even as he held her, felt her warmth, a part of him sensed that whatever she had seen—or hadn’t seen—had shaken her deeply. Yet she had crossed the Wall and succeeded where her own ancestors had failed. Her name would go down in history, forever bound to the White Dread. But she seemed only depleted as if the cost of that victory mattered more than any glory could lift.

Claere leaned into him, following intuition, her face buried in his chest as if seeking solace from the emptiness she had found. The mysteries beyond the Wall had not revealed themselves to her, and now, all that was left was to return to the warmth of home. The closest to that was her husband.

He laid a kiss over her braids, holding her close, and whispering, "Let's go home."

omg i figured out taglists:

@pearldaisy , @thatkindofgurl , @theadharablack , @cherryheairt , @piper570

thank you for your sweet comments! there's more to come <3

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kabsey · 2 months ago

Note

Hey, I really love your thoughts and writing... how about "Boys Night" from the Wholesome Prompts? 🙂 Anything come to mind?

Thank you so much! <3 I had so many different thoughts for this prompt, but this is the one that stuck. Not quite a boys' night per se, but it is a boys' chat and it is at night 😊

-------

When the knock came, Viago glared at the door over the top of his reading glasses. The runner wasn't due for another hour, and he could not imagine who else Marta would allow to approach his study when she knew exactly how tall the stack of his correspondence had grown (she was the one who brought him the post, after all). Rook or Teia wouldn't have even bothered to knock.

Which left Viago no choice but to pause in his writing with a stifled sigh and a curt "Yes?"

The door opened, and the figure who entered explained all: the First Talon went where he liked. If it had been Caterina, Viago would have set his letter aside and risen to greet her.

Instead Viago resumed writing, though he paid Lucanis the courtesy of asking, "Is this urgent business, or can it wait a moment?"

"It can wait."

Lucanis crossed to the bookshelf, his near-silent footsteps drowned out by the scratching of Viago's quill. From the corner of his eye, Viago watched him peruse the shelves with his hands clasped behind his back. Two fingers on his right hand twitched in an uneven rhythm, a fidgety agitation that no lesser Crow would dare display in front of a Talon. From Lucanis Dellamorte, whose knuckles were striped with crisscrossed scars from Caterina's cane, it either spoke to his comfort with Viago or a mind very ill at ease. Possibly both.

Viago ended the letter with the correct signature (he had a variation for each of his regular correspondents, making a fake easier to spot) and set the page atop the outgoing post to let the ink dry. He wiped the nib of his quill, capped his bottle of ink, and placed both items in his desk drawer with his glasses. The soft sound of the drawer closing drew Lucanis's attention, and Viago gestured for him to take the seat across from his desk.

When he was seated, he opened his mouth to speak, but Viago cut him off with a raised hand.

"I can guess why you're here," he said, folding his hands back over his desk. "You want to make Rook a Dellamorte."

Lucanis raised an eyebrow, but a corner of his lips lifted in a self-deprecating smile. "I suppose my intentions have been fairly obvious."

Viago huffed a laugh. "Yours and half of Antiva's."

Lucanis's smile vanished. "Meaning?"

"Meaning I have received inquiries from the head of every House and even some of the merchant guilds besides." As if Rook would stoop to playing bodyguard to some bloated princeling.

For a brief moment, Lucanis's eyes flashed violet. Viago tensed and curled his fingers around the knife strapped to the underside of his chair arm, but Lucanis shook his head and turned to the thin air to his right, one hand lifted in a placating gesture. "Calm down."

"Apologies," he said as he looked back to Viago, and Viago relaxed his hand. "We're just surprised to hear it. Does Rook know? She's never mentioned it."

Viago frowned. "Of course she does. Do you think I would simply ship her off somewhere with no consideration for her opinion?"

"No, of course not," Lucanis assured him. His gaze dropped to Viago's desk as he fell silent. Viago wondered what the demon had to say about the matter. He probably didn't want to know.

"As far as I'm aware," he said, and Lucanis's eyes immediately returned to his, "Rook has no intention of accepting any of these other offers."

Some of the tension left Lucanis's frame, and Viago felt almost reluctant to continue, though he knew frankness was the better road.

"But you should know, I don't believe she intends to accept yours either."

Lucanis stiffened, tense again to the point of shock. "You... What makes you say that?"

"She's expressed to me that she's happy in my House." Viago was not one for providing comfort, but he knew his words were a blow to Lucanis, so he attempted to choose less direct phrasing than he might have. "She's endured a great deal in the past year. You both have. For the moment, she seems to crave the stability of the familiar rather than jumping into something new."

Lucanis's eyes fluttered briefly shut, in an attempt to control either the demon's reaction or his own. But when he opened them, he nodded.

"I'm glad you told me," he said. "It's something I hadn't considered. Perhaps I should have." A hint of a sad smile crossed his face. "You have to be the one to break it to Teia though. She was so sure Rook would say yes."

Viago raised an eyebrow. "You spoke to Teia about this?" Before Lucanis could answer, he shook his head. "Don't listen to her on the subject of Rook. She's always wanted her for herself."

Lucanis stared back at him, lips parted. "She has?"

"Does that surprise you?" Viago asked. Perhaps Lucanis had not paid much attention previously to the movement of Crows between Houses. Teia was notorious for attempting to charm away promising talent.

"A bit," Lucanis admitted. "You don't seem troubled by the idea."

Viago waved a hand. "We have an arrangement."

Lucanis looked even more nonplussed. "You do?"

"Of course." Viago stroked his beard as he considered the future. "We should probably include you as well moving forward."

An odd red flush crept across Lucanis's face. "Include me? In your... arrangement with Teia?"

Viago frowned. "You don't wish to be involved? Your grandmother always—"

One of Lucanis's hands shot up to stop Viago's words, while the other pinched the bridge of his nose. "Viago, I am starting to think—and really, sincerely hope—that we are talking about two different things."

Viago's frown deepened. "We're discussing Rook joining your House."

Lucanis's shoulders shook with silent laughter, and when he looked up, he was smiling. "We're discussing Rook joining my household. I'm going to ask her to marry me, Viago."

"Oh."

That had been such a foregone conclusion that Viago usually forgot it hadn't been formally settled, except for the moments when Teia griped about Lucanis taking too long. They'd already spent whole evenings with her sharing her thoughts on centerpieces and color coordination and other details that Viago couldn't follow, though he attempted to appear interested enough that he would not be kicked out of their bed.

He looked at the rest of the correspondence he had meant to address in annoyance. The runner would arrive any moment.

"You don't need her Talon's permission for that," he groused.

Lucanis only laughed again. "Of course not. But I would like to know that we would have the blessing of her family."

"Rook isn't—"

The automatic denial died on his lips at Lucanis's knowing look. He much preferred when the First Talon bestowed that smug expression on his rivals. Viago closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead.

"Fine. Yes. You have it. Go find her and let me work in peace."

Ever a wise man, Lucanis said nothing more but simply rose and left Viago alone in his study. For all that Teia enjoyed the idea, he had a very difficult time reconciling Rook with a word such as "wife." When he tried, all his mind would conjure was the memory of an underfed girl with a messy braid and bare feet. But not that long ago, he would never have been able to associate the word "hero" with Rook either.

Since he'd managed the one, he was fairly certain that with time, he would manage the other.

#viago de riva #lucanis dellamorte #rook de riva #rook x lucanis #rookanis #dragon age: the veilguard #post-game fic

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kroosluvr · 1 year ago

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there's some sort of plot here but im none the wiser bc i sketched these at 5am last night (just kidding here are my ideas under the cut)

hai :3

sumire took on kasumi's hitman spot in the Association(tm) they're in (smth smth they got blackmailed so now they have to work for The Association(tm)), because her beloved sister has so much more to live for than blind killing and maiming. her life is expendable anyway. when asked for her codename she blanked and just said violet bc that's just the meaning of "sumire" - hope THAT doesnt bite her in the ass later.

this violet is stoic, straightforward, and violent (Heh) and very goal oriented, just get the job done and get out. she's a good counterbalance to joker, who, though experienced and nimble, is often very impulsive and reckless.

this was also kinda inspired by navi!crow LMAOO u will always be famous........ i think him being exasperated by joker's antics during heists and missions wld be so fun

joker is joker and crow is crow their personalities r basically the same

notice that p2 joker card.. woagh... so when joker does his hitman bs he leaves his Calling card (????) of a joker card but woah suddenly we're encountering bodies with a Different joker card. who could this be.. woah. a mystery...

#cele draws #royal trio #shusumi #sumire yoshizawa #akira kurusu #goro akechi #persona 5 royal #p5r #uhhh erm #hitman au #??????????#i might drarw more..maybe...

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azsazz · 7 months ago

Text

Over Ice (Part 7)

Hockey!Rhysand x Reader

Summary: Anon Req: She’s walking around Campus and BOOM right smack dab into Broody McBrooder!! She THEN finds out he’s the tutor for one of her hardest courses (personally Psych would be a good one) and they become super duper close with him and the team!!!

Warnings: Drinking, playing party games.

Word Count: 2,904

(Part 1) (Part 2) (Part 3) (Part 4) (Part 5) (Part 6)

_________________________________________

Playing a game his cousin made up has never ended well. Not when they were younger, and Rhys knows that it certainly isn’t going to end well tonight, especially when there’s alcohol involved.

He doesn’t know why he agreed. Maybe it was because he was thinking more with his cock than his head, the taste of your skin still buzzing across his lips like a spell you put him under. He wants to move closer, doesn’t like how you’re sitting on the other side of the circle from him, with too many people between the both of you and even more who join when Mor announces the game to anyone around who’s listening.

Of course, Amarantha pushes her way into the circle, taking up position right beside him. He stiffens, and it takes effort for Rhys to unhinge his jaw and slug back some of the amber liquid in his cup that Cassian poured him. It’s pretty much just straight alcohol, which might be exactly what he needs to endure this game if his clingy ex stands beside him all night.

Your eyes latched onto his ex the moment she entered the game. Mor made a face, knowing exactly who she is, but didn’t mention it. You wonder if she thinks that there’s a chance, she thinks Rhys and Amarantha have the possibility of rekindling their relationship, and you want to ask her how she feels about the girl, but you don’t want to seem too interested in her cousin and his ex.

It doesn’t stop you from looking, though. Amarantha’s friend flanks her side, creating a further distance between you and Rhys. You’re on completely opposites of the circle, now, and the smug grin on her red painted lip tell you she knows it, too. The stirs the neon pink straw in her cup. It makes her sharp, crimson nails pop. She gives you an innocent shrug when she catches you staring, and you tear your eyes from hers only to settle them on those familiar violet ones that are widened comically as if to tell you, Help me!

You don’t know how to help him. It’s not like you can move to sit between them; that alone would be enough for Mor to question you, and if Rhys’ ex forced you into doing something more to prove that you’re the couple you’re trying to make her think you are, it’ll be game over before it’s even begun, because your loyalties lie with your best friend.

This night has turned into such a shit show it’s all you can do to sit in your spot while Mor explains the rules.

“The name of the game is TD Bottle.” She plants a glass bottle in the center of the circle, and you already don’t like the looks of this. Peering around the circle, you assess the partygoers. If this is a kissing game, you want to know what you’re getting yourself into. There’s Rhys, who you carefully avoid eye contact with because the thought of his lips anywhere near your body again has shivers skittering up your spine. Amarantha, who hasn’t stopped glancing up at Rhys like he is her God. A few of Rhys’ teammates are scattered around the circle—Cassian, Balthazar, James, and even Azriel seems to be sitting in on the game as well, much to your surprise. The girls heavily outweigh the men, and Gwyn looks like a terrified mouse in the presence of a murder of crows.

You catch her bright blue eyes, silently asking if she’s okay. If she wants to leave, you’ll go with her, no questions asked.

She gives you a smile that you assume is supposed to be reassuring, but is anything but. But she stays. You all stay.

“Like, Touch Down?” James asks, brows bent in confusion.

“No, no, it’s like Touchy Dick,” Cassian throws in easily, eliciting laughter from the boys and eye rolls from the girls. But the mixture of anticipation and tension that hangs over the group disperses, and everyone seems to ease into their seats a little.

“That doesn’t even make sense,” Mor wrinkles her nose, pulling a face of disgust.

“Please, tell us what the hell it means before they keep guessing,” Rhys mutters, bringing his cup to his lips for another swig. You watch the way his throat bobs as he swallows, and he raises a mocking brow when he catches your gaze. Shit. Maybe the few drinks you’ve had are starting to take effect, and this game surely isn’t going to help the case.

He winks, and it’s only then that you’re able to rip your gaze from his violet stare, cheeks burning warmly.

The only good thing is that Amarantha catches the interaction and her lips tighten to a razor thin line that makes her look more of like the snake you think she is.

“It stands for Truth, Dare, Bottle,” Mor says. “It’s a combination of truth and dare and spin the bottle.”

“How…” Rhys trails off, trying to find the word.

“Apropos?” You supply. You and Rhysand share conspiring smiles that feel much too intimate for the near-strangers you’re supposed to be in the presence of his cousin.

Mor whines. “That’s not fair, I can’t have one of my best friends and my cousin ganging up on me like this. I won’t stand for it!”

She means it as a joke, but it shocks you and Rhys, realizing that you should not be acting so friendly for only having met on a few occasions. Hell, Mor doesn’t even know that he’s your psychology tutor yet.

You nurse your drink, trying to ignore the knot that’s wound itself back into your stomach. It’s not mixing well with the tequila. You focus all your attention on your friend. “Sorry, continue.”

“So, one person spins the bottle,” Mor says, giving the empty glass a swing around the circle. Everyone seems to lean in closer, eager to see who it’s going to land on. You aren’t worried about it landing on you because it’s your roommate, but you’re sure this state of somewhat calm won’t last when it’s someone else spinning the bottle. Especially Rhys.

The bottle stops, it’s mouth pointing to Cassian, who beams like he’s won player of the year. “The person it lands on chooses truth or dare, and we all know how that game goes,” Mor waves her hand, gesturing Cassian to answer.

He waggles his brows. “Dare.”

“I dare you to…take off your shirt,” Mor says, and the girls in the circle whistle and cheer.

“I’m not wearing a shirt,” Cassian responds, gesturing to his bare torso hidden beneath his apron. You can see the tan skin of his broad back, the way his muscles ripple as he moves, and damn, that was a good dare.

A throat clearing draws your attention away from where you’re ogling Cassian’s body. Rhys raises an unimpressed brow, his jaw ticking as he stares you down. Amarantha’s red gaze flickers between you and Cassian, brows knitted together as if you’re some equation she’s trying to figure out.

“Sorry,” you mouth across the circle when Amarantha’s attention is diverted when Mor rolls her eyes and commands Cassian to take off his apron instead.

Rhys rolls his eyes, and you stifle the pang of disappointment at missing Cassian stripping off the top of his apron, now sitting completely shirtless in his spot.

“And now it’s Cassian’s turn to spin,” Mor finishes with a beaming smile. “See? Easy.”

“Super easy,” Cassian agrees, spinning the bottle. It lands on Amarantha’s friend, and his grin turns lethal. “Let’s make this more interesting. Alis, truth or dare?”

She crosses her arms over her chest, a move that Cassian does not mind at all, especially when it pushes her breasts up like that. She lifts her chin, staring him down as she answers, “Dare.”

Cassian ponders for a moment, before he breaks out into a mischievous smile. “I dare you to refill my cup with anything I want until the end of the game.”

Alis grimaces, and you so do not envy her, especially when Cassian immediately hands her his cup and asks her to fill it with ice and whiskey. He jokes, turning toward the circle, “Anyone else want anything?”

On and on the game goes until the bottle lands on Amarantha and she answers a truth about how many guys she’s slept with. Then, she taker her turn and spins the bottle. It lands on Rhysand, just like you knew it would somehow. It fills you with a nausea that you try to drown out with your drink, only to find your cup empty. Huh. You don’t remember downing your entire cup. Maybe you can dare someone to get you a refill when it’s your turn.

“Truth or dare, Rhys?” Amarantha says, sickeningly sweet. She even bats her eyelashes for effect, but Rhys doesn’t even glance her way, much more interested in trying to shatter the glass bottle pointing in his direction with his fiery glare.

“Truth,” he grits, bracing himself for whatever imploring question is going to fall from her lips.

“Do you miss that thing I did with my hands? When I would—”

“No,” he growls, cutting her off. Wherever she was trying to go with that question, it backfires, because Rhys reaches into the circle and spins the bottle with a flick that means business.

“Awe, I wanted to hear what she was going to say,” her friend pouts, though the glance she shares with her friend tells you she already knows.

“Well, Alis, maybe if you ask nicely, she’ll do it to you, too.” Rhys is undeterred by their gaping looks, and a few of his players can’t hold back their snickers. Amarantha and Alis’ cheeks turn red, and you think they might leave the game in the midst of their humiliation, but they stubbornly stay put.

He spins, and the bottle lands on one Cassian again, who seems to really be the only one enjoying the game. Rhys dares him to take a shot of alcohol. Lame, but Rhysand doesn’t want to play, knows that he’s only doing it because you are and he wants to bear witness to your truths and dares.

“(Y/N)? Truth or dare?”

“Um, dare.” You hadn’t meant to choose that option, but you were so distracted by the way that Rhys keeps leaning away from Amarantha every time she tries to slant against him. It yields a fire in your belly at the sight, one so consuming that you don’t realize what you’ve said until it’s too late.

Cassian grins like the cat that got the cream, and you don’t like it one fucking bit.

Rhys looks just as surprised as you do, even more so when Cassian dares you to kiss him. It’s then that he’s able to remove his gaze from you to glare at his roommate, though it does sting when your first reaction to the dare is to frown.

Mor groans, slapping Cassian’s side. “Dude, seriously?”

“Seriously,” he nods in confirmation. He’s clearly not reading the room. “What?” He asks, “Are you going to back out, (Y/N)?”

You shake your head. No, you can’t back out. Not when Amarantha thinks that you and Rhys are already together. She’d absolutely question why the two of you wouldn’t kiss, which would cause questions from Mor to unravel the plan you and Rhys have just agreed to.

“Mor,” you call, all but crawling across the large circle to reach Rhys. He catches on, something sparking in his violet eyes as he leans forward to meet you halfway. “Close your eyes.”

You hear an indignant huff, and then nothing because the pounding of your heart drowns out the noise of the party around you. There’s a question in Rhysand’s eyes and you shake your head softly, watching as he swallows harshly when you show that you’re doing this for the both of your sakes. You are not going to back down.

And then his mouth is on yours, and fucking stars explode.

You lose your surroundings completely: where you are, who you’re with, what fucking day it is. Rhys’s mouth is much softer than you imagined with all of the coarse language you know he spits on the ice.

You can taste the warmth of whiskey on his lips and you want to drown in it. He’s addicting, even more so when shivers rattle down your spine in pleasure when his tongue traces the seam of your mouth.

When you’re about to part your lips for him, a loud, forced cough steals your attention. You pull away and everything slams back into your full-force: the party, the people watching you, cheering for you, and your roommate and best friend, who looks less than impressed with your display of affection with her cousin.

Your heart that’s pounding in your chest because of the feeling of Rhys on your mouth turns into a pounding of guilt. You break Rhys’ heady gaze, quickly finding your spot back in the circle. You have the urge to straighten your shirt and fix your hair, like you’ve been caught doing something much worse than sharing an innocent kiss.

Except, that there was nothing about that kiss that felt innocent at all.

You keep your eyes averted, trying not to squeeze your legs shut to stifle the need for pleasure that aches between them. Fuck.

“(Y/N)?” Cassian sing-songs. Rhys shoots daggers at his friend. He doesn’t give a fuck about the game anymore, more worried about you and how you won’t meet his gaze. That kiss was fucking something, that’s for sure, and he can’t help but to run his tongue across his lips, chasing the taste of you. “It’s your turn.”

“Right,” you agree, pressing forward to reach for the bottle. You try not to remember the image of you doing the same only moments ago when you were reaching the distance to kiss Rhys, but the memory flashes in your head anyway, your cheeks going red hot.

The bottle spins and spins and your shoulders drop when it lands on Balthazar. You don’t know him all that well, and when he picks truth, you give him something easy.

“Have you ever cheated on a test?” You ask, lamely. All you want to do is get out of this circle, down another drink, and go home. The feeling of Rhysand’s lips still buzzes against yours, and it reverberates between your legs. If you could go home, you could…

“Yeah,” he admits, like it’s something everyone does. He reaches forward and spins the bottle, and freezes when it lands on Gwyn.

Her eyes are as wide as saucers. Her bottom lip is tucked between her teeth as she nervously thinks over her options. You and Mor share a look, both noticing how flighty she looks. Gwyn looks like she might just spring up from the circle and bolt out of here, and you can’t say that you wouldn’t be right behind her. You’re more than ready to be in the privacy of your own room.

“Truth or dare, Gwyn?”

“Dare,” she says softly, barely able to be heard over the music and chatter of the party. Balthazar hears, though, or perhaps he reads her lips because he’s staring at her so intently that you feel like you’re intruding on something.

You wonder what made her choose dare, like doing whatever he comes up with is the lesser of two evils. It’s clear that something is going on between the two of them, but you’ve never heard a peep about either of them knowing each other. Maybe they share a class?

Whatever it is, you’re entirely intrigued.

“I dare you to tell me why you won’t look at me.”

The circle goes deathly silent, which isn’t all that silent at all with the music shaking the walls of the house. But the small circle…when she finally raises her eyes to meet his, it’s like walls have shot up around all of you, like you’re on the field of the colosseum and Gwyn and Balth are the warriors ready to fight for to the death.

You’ve never been surer that you’re intruding on something you shouldn’t be in your entire life. From across the circle, Rhys shoots you a look just as confused as you feel. You shrug, you have no idea what’s going on, and it’s all you can do to watch.

Gwyn doesn’t respond. It’s a stare off between the two of them, with her icy blue eyes glaring at him and him staring right back, brows furrowed in a hurt confusion.

She doesn’t answer. Gwyn climbs to her feet and threads her way into the crowd without a second glance, like Balthazar should know exactly why she finds it difficult to look at him. You can’t help it, you watch his face as soon as Gwyn’s red hair leaves your sight, watching the hurt flash across his eyes before he sits back in his spot in defeat.

“What?” He asks, lamely. “It’s not like I asked her to kiss me or anything.” Balthazar laughs drily, more than done with this game.

And neither do you. Whatever just happened, you’re more concerned about your roommate. You get to your feet, gauge how you feel with the few tequila pineapple juices you’ve had, before you follow after your roommate.

_________________________________________

Over Ice Taglist:

@saltedcoffeescotch @acourtofbatboydreams @mrsjna @velarisdusk @bionic-donut @tenshis-cake @eleganttravelercloud @lilah-asteria @serena05 @bwormie @soph1644 @house-husband-of-castlemurdock @tothestarsandwhateverend @topaz125 @judig92 @se7enteen--black-blog @thecraziestcrayon @cherry-cin @itsinherited @justafictionalnerd @bookishbroadwaybish @405rry @itsinherited @w0nderw0manly

#rhys acotar #rhysand/reader #acotar #azsazz #acomaf #acowar #rhysand x reader #acotar hockey au #over ice #hockey!bat boys #hockey!rhysand

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