#throne of the four winds

[any-n-everything]

I'VE WANTED TO DO THIS EVER SINCE I SAW THIS PANEL AND ONLY REMEMBERED NOW

Next Gen 13 Crowns

Demon King Sullivan Iruma

Lord of Flames, Asmodeus Alice

Creative Queen (or Lord of Fun?), Valac Clara

King of Games, Shax Lied

Ambitious King, Sabnock Sabro

Head of Lust, Ix Elizabetta

Serpent Lord, Andro M. Jazz

Lord of Knowledge, Allocer Schneider

Head of Sloth, Agares Picero

Lord of Four Winds, Gaap Goemon

Snow Queen, Crocell Kerori

Beast King, Caim Camui

Lord of Mysteries, Purson Soi

(The Thirteen Crowns Drinking Parties are Legendary)

BONUS:

Chief of Demon Border Patrol, Azazel Ameri

(maybe one day it will be Demon King and his Thirteen Crowns...)

[chelsea-lat3ly]

You don't get to tell me about sad...

[merriemarvels]

[ dear gods of RNG

i have played world of warcraft since 2008

I have killed the Lich King a cumulative 200+ times

give me that god dang horse ]

[toms-cherry-trees]

Cracked || Jacaerys Velaryon x Twin!Wife! Reader

Summary: No one ever said duty would hurt like this

Word count: 3.3k

Warnings: Twincest targcest (Velaryoncest?), angst, spoilers if you haven't watched S2E2, for anti hating purposes is not explicitly stated but all characters are above 18.

Author's note: Won't you look at me, 7 months since my last HOTD fic! That scene with Jace tearing up definitely did something to me. My very first time writing for Jace, hopefully won't be the last!

Also a massive massive thank you and all my devotion to @moris-auri for beta reading this!

No one welcomes him when he lands in the Dragonmont. 

The flapping of Vermax's leathery wings is amplified, booming throughout the massive cavern, swirls of steam rising from the cracks on the dark stone. The only ones to witness his arrival are the dragon keepers, but even they are distracted, their focus on the exhausted dragon and not his equally drained rider. When they stride past him, they don’t acknowledge him at all, almost as if he doesn’t exist. Jace wonders if he is a ghost, because only in death could someone feel the agony that seeps from his bones and still be standing. 

He feels like a foreigner in this place. 

Even though he has lived on Dragonstone half his life, he feels like a foreigner. The fortress is not theirs. He doubts it never truly has been. They are just keepers of these ancient walls and the history they carry within. Dragonstone is a relic that will stand on that island for a thousand years to come, as welcoming as a gush of Northern wind on bare skin. The only warmth comes from its very core, from those who habit it and who've made the great fortress a home. 

But the home he left weeks prior is not the one he now returns to. The warmth has been snuffed and the hearth has been shattered. 

He walks with his head held high and his back straight, gaze always ahead and chin lifted in a gesture of near arrogance. He walks like an heir, because he is. He is now his mother’s heir and he must play his part, even if all he wants to do is lay his head on her lap and weep like a boy of ten. 

A moon ago he was just Jacaerys Velaryon. He was a son, a firstborn son, but with no more responsibility than studying and learning, mastering skills that would serve him purpose in 30 or 40 years. His greatest concerns were training Vermax properly, what desserts would be served after supper, and how to avoid falling into another of his siblings’ silly pranks. He had been betrothed long ago, but marriage itself was something distant, something that could wait out a few more years.

He was a brother of five with another sibling on the way; a sister. While most in the castle pined for a son, another boy, he secretly supported his mother’s longing for a little girl.

And now he is Jacaerys, Prince of Dragonstone and heir to his mother’s throne and crown. He is more Targaryen than Velaryon now. He is an envoy, a messenger, a warrior if needed be. He is a strategist and a politician. He is an asset and a threat; someone who has forged great alliances, but also has found strong enemies, their weapons aimed directly at the target behind his head, target painted there by his grandsire many a year before his birth. A wedding , hastily arranged, to strengthen their cause and their line of inheritance. 

He is a brother to just four now, and the crib has been left empty. 

Cregan Stark had been the one to break the news to him. Standing on a cramped lookout on the edge of the world, nothing but whiteness as far as the eye reached, Lord Stark had said that the Wall did more than keep savages and ice at bay. It held back death.

But death came nonetheless.

Jacaerys had managed to maintain his stance as a man and a Prince, receiving the news with unyielding stoicism, even when his knees felt weak and his body chilled, like ice had spread down his spine. But this ice was nothing like the one surrounding him, there on the edge of the North. This one burned, burned like dragonfire while stabbing him with a thousand knives, leaving him to bleed out while not allowing him to die. It stole the air from his lungs and the blood from his veins, and filled him with snow. His lungs couldn’t breathe, his heart couldn’t beat yet somehow he didn’t drop dead right there where he stood.

He recalls little of what occurred after, nothing more than brief, precise memories. Receiving Cregan’s condolences, and feeling the firm squeeze of the older man’s hand on his shoulder. Northerners parting silently to make way for him in the courtyard, where a restless Vermax awaited, his screeches rattling the windows of the nearby towers. Someone handing him a parcel, hastily wrapped, containing a sleek wolf pelt as a present for their Queen. The thunderstorm he traversed in the Riverlands, and the toll it took on Vermax to fly through it. 

The painful tightening on his throat as he wondered if he had encountered a similar one, not far from home.

Servants and courtiers make way for him, as he approaches his mother’s chambers. They bow and curtsy, and offer words of courtesy, lamenting the loss of the young Prince. Some stare out of the corner of their eye as he passes, waiting to see if the new Prince of Dragonstone will crumble like sand before their very eyes. But he never betrays himself; not a tear brimming in his eyes, not a wobble of his lips. The occasional flaring of his nostrils is the single telltale of the sorrow that simmers just beneath his skin. 

He hesitates briefly, pausing at the end of the vast hallway where the royal apartments are. Up the winding staircase, past the single set of double doors to the left, his mother awaits. No, not his mother, the Queen. She stopped being his mother the day the crown was placed atop her head, and the court of Dragonstone bent the knee before her. Grief and loss shaped her, morphing her into the leader and ruler she had been born to be. Jace can only admire her, and hope that he will be able to embrace his new role as effortlessly as she has done hers.

The double doors are pushed open by Ser Erryk. The Queen sits alone, gaze downcast and thoughts troubled, that much Jace can tell by the nervous fidgeting of her hands, twisting her rings almost compulsively. When her eyes rise to meet his, Jacerys sees in them a mirror of himself, the same exhaustion, the effort to push back and bury the wrenching misery, the bleeding wound left behind by their loss.

They are alone, just the two of them in that silent alcove. Jace could break down, weep like he hasn’t done in years and lay his head across her lap; let her slender, motherly fingers card through his hair as she assures him that all will be well in the end. But he can’t, he can’t because she’s more Queen than mother now and she’s grieving too, grieving deeper than he is and if she can keep it together then so can he, because he is her heir and he has to make her proud and be a man worthy of respect. 

The Prince doesn’t cry; the heir doesn’t cry. 

A man remains immovable and imperturbable.

He straightens his back, head held high and hands laced before him as he recounts his triumphs, the Houses he convinced to pledge for them and what each one has offered and asked them in return. This moment should have been his shining glory, with himself striding through the castle with pride and confidence, ready to announce to the council how he had secured the allegiance of the Vale and the North for their cause. He would bask in his wife’s admiration, drink the praises from her lips and show her he was ready to one day be a great King, with a great Queen by his side. 

Instead it is just them two, hidden behind doors, picking up the pieces falling from their carefully built masks before they completely fall apart. He brings good news, great news, but they matter little and now taste like ash in his mouth, burning and bitter. His victories mean nothing to him because his little brother is dead, gone 60 years before his time, and they don’t even have a body to burn and Jacaerys feels it should have been him, because he is the eldest and he should have protected him better. He should have faced their rageful uncle and died instead, but he didn’t and now he stands there, moving and doing because if he stays still the grief will swallow him whole and bury him in a pit of sand.

And then his voice breaks, the facade cracks and they both stop pretending, because pretending hurts, like gripping a white hot rod with both hands and refusing to let go even if it’s hurting you.

Her embrace is warm; her arms feel like home. With his head tucked under her chin, his cheek pressed against her chest, he feels young again. He feels the sobs racking her body, the tears dampening her face and his hair, her fingers digging on the fabric of his cloak. They sway slightly, rocking from side to side like when he was a babe of just a few days old, fussy and restless, keeping the whole holdfast awake at night because he refused to settle anywhere but on his mother’s arms. 

But now Jace suspects the motion is meant for her more than for him, to transport her to days past when she held her babes in her arms and they were safe under her wing and no one could harm them because she would sooner tear the world to pieces. Discreetly the places shift, now it's her forehead against his shoulder and his arms holding her steady. Jace feels the tears stinging his eyes and the lump blocking his throat, but he cannot break down because his mother is broken and someone must stand strong and whole and it has to be him. 

Soon, too soon,  his mother has dismissed him, sending him to his chambers to bathe and rest because they will have the funeral at sunset and they must not show weakness before the court. The cracks must be patched and hidden, no matter how deep they run. Not a single piece can fall out of place.

He drags his feet now; the weight on top of him has grown heavy. His posture slackens, his shoulders slump, the pretence is harder to hold. Sunset feels like a death sentence, because a funeral makes it real. It makes it true. Burning what they have because there is not even a body left behind to burn. That way he can no longer pretend that is not happening, that is all just a tale. And then, he will crack. No willpower will keep him whole because his brother, his little brother is dead and he has to face a future where Lucerys will not be a part of it.

He pushes his chamber door open with one shoulder, his mind blank of any thought; the encounter with his mother affected him deeper than he had anticipated, because even she is cracking and now is just him holding it together because he has to. 

And then he sees her. 

His wife sits before the hearth, so ethereal with the glow of the fire illuminating her face. Her head turns as soon as the door opens, and he immediately notices the red around her swollen eyes. At first he thinks she’s mourning, but she’s had her time to mourn and Jace knows she’s crying for him, crying because she feels the agony straining to break through his flesh. Just like they have felt each other’s every emotion for as long as they have lived, have anticipated each other’s words and read their thoughts. Connected by a bond that runs deeper than marriage, because they are of the same blood, come into the world together.

The last time he saw her before his departure, they had an ugly fight. Jacaerys had convinced their mother to keep her at Dragonstone rather than allow her to fly as an envoy, claiming they could not leave the fortress unguarded and with the larger dragons going in and out on their missions, they had to pile up their remaining strength. The Queen had agreed, and her word was final. 

She could not argue with Her Grace, but she certainly made Jacaerys know how she felt about what she perceived as a betrayal and lack of trust in herself and her abilities. Jace pleaded with her to see reason, to see things from his perspective. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe in her, he would never dare to doubt her strength. But he didn’t trust the men she would encounter on her journey, nor did he want her to risk taking a long flight on her dragon and run into danger. She, always the hot headed one, had called him every name under the sun and refused to see him off, choosing instead to sulk in her chamber. It left a bitter taste in his mouth, to leave on bad terms with her, but he trusted they would talk it out upon his arrival. That all would be well and their problems would be solved.

He stands silently before her, and for the first time he feels small. So small and diminished, unwilling to look her in the eyes. His gaze is fixed on the floor because the tears are winning the battle and if they do he will crack open like a dragon egg, but no great beast will emerge, only his insecurities and his failures.

His lower lip wobbles, and he bites it so hard he leaves the imprint of his teeth. His nails dig deep in his palms in his attempt to steady their accusatory trembling. He breathes in and out, slow and steady, his eyes squeezed shut as he feels himself losing control. He cannot allow himself to lose it, not in front of her of all people, not when he is supposed to be her pride, not her embarrassment.

He hears the sharp drag of the chair as she stands, the thud of the heavy tome she had been reading being thrown rather carelessly over a table. Her steps are slow and calculated as she moves across the stone, approaching him cautiously like he is some wild beast ready to lash out. Like he is some fragile thing, so fragile that a gush of wind could break him apart.

Her hands are soft and warm as they cradle his face, gently coaxing him to look up, to meet her eyes. But he can’t, he fears he will see disappointment in them, he will see accusation, he will see her blame him for Luke’s death, for forcing her to remain back when it was their little brother who needed his protection the most. 

For failing the family.

He succumbs in the end, brown eyes gingerly rising to meet her own, bracing himself for the worst. But he sees nothing of what he expected. He sees no anger, no resentment, no pity. Just worry and tenderness, and a desolation that matches his own.

The first tears he has been holding back since Winterfell finally escape the barrier of his willpower and roll down his cheeks. He attempts to blink them away but they cannot be stopped, nor does he have the strength to stop them no more. His wife brushes some away with her thumbs, and smoothes back his hair in a tender gesture

“Jace.”

That little world, the call of his own name coming from her lips is all that it needs for the dam inside him to burst. The violent sobs rack his body, tears blurring his vision and he chokes on them, while also feeling like he’s breathing for the first time since that raven arrived at the Wall. He tries to hide his face but she won’t let him, and tears shine in her eyes too and that only makes the crying worse, because his wife is suffering and he cannot console her because he’s also suffering.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

His legs weaken and his stance falters. The same apology falls from his mouth, the small words tumbling over each other and getting lost in the incessant weeping. His knees falter and he drops down; his forehead rests against her body and his hands are on her hips, fearing he will lose her if he lets go. He sobs onto her dress, not caring anymore about being the perfect Prince and heir, about being the man everyone will respect and be proud of.

His wife drops to her knees too and holds him close, allowing his head to lay against her shoulder. The scent of her body fills his nostrils, aroma of camellias and toasted sugar. It smells of happy memories and easier days, and it evokes a sense of safety in him, of tenderness, of the happiest days of his short life. His cry doesn’t stop, but it is not only for Lucerys now. It is for his mother, for his younger brothers, for himself and for all the losses to come. He cries for his twin, his wife, for now the fear of harm coming her way has increased tenfold, and the mere idea of her being cruelly ripped from his side tears a gash on his heart.

He cries until he’s sure there are no tears left to cry. Until the weight has been lifted from his chest and he is sure he can breathe again. They remain there for what feels like mere seconds and a lifetime at the same time, locked in each other’s embrace. Her fingers card through his hair and her lips press tender kisses to his temple; his arms wrapped around her, hands pressed against her back to keep her close, as close as he can to his own heart. He would gladly stay there forever, spend the rest of his days encased in her warmth and basking in her love. But the moment is broken all too soon when a servant knocks on the door to let them know that courtiers are already gathering in the outskirts of the castle for the funeral.

Jace lets himself be guided by the hand like an obedient child to sit before her vanity. She moves around him silently; unneeded words would only break the feeble spell of calmness surrounding them.

She takes care of everything for him. Wipes his face clean with a damp cloth, presses a cool spoon to his eyes so they will not appear swollen and bloodshot. He changes into a fresh tunic, and allows her to comb his hair and powder his face to disguise the redness of his cheeks and nose. 

They stand together before the ornate mirror, both of them dressed in matching red and black. She helps him pin the cloak onto his tunic, fastening it to his right shoulder with a silver dragon brooch. Jace holds her gaze in their reflection, hoping to convey with gestures the emotions words fail to do. She understands; she always does.

He is rewarded with a kiss on the cheek, and while it does not manage to coax a smile out of him, it fills his veins with a pleasant tickling warmth, the same he felt after their first kiss and the one he hopes to feel until his last breath. 

Her fingers run up his arms gently, tracing the embroiders and trimmings of the doublet. They come to rest on his shoulders and gently push them back, straightening his posture and puffing out his chest. The right index continues the ascent, tracing the curve of the neck and the still sharpening line of the jawline before settling under his chin, pushing upwards ever so slightly to lift his head. Urging him to hold himself with pride. To unapologetically show the world that he is cracked, but not broken.

She comes to stand before him at last, smoothing down nonexistent creases from his clothes until nothing but pure perfection remains. They hold each others’ gaze for a few moments, before she reaches up to steal from him a gentle kiss.  

“All ready, My Prince.” 

This time, he smiles.

[scapinoz]

MY MAD DOG (ALL MINE).

yandere male oc x male reader

mob boss x guard dog reader

— chapter four.

me, last sunday: I’ll post something next thursday.

anyways, i forgot these two existed. been writing another story, juicy angsty wlw. we’ll see how it goes. also the quality isn’t as good as the previous chapter, apologies in advance. i was in the ‘quantity over quality’ mindset while writing this. then again, even the quantity is missing. this one’s short af. i didn’t know what else to write.

warning: illarion is a disaster. no doomed old men yaoi. illarion. y/n being a whore. brothels. sex work. mentions of violence (yay, I’ll write actual violence next chapter)

previous chapter - chapter three.

series master list - my mad dog (all mine).

The penthouse was a kingdom adrift in the clouds.

A citadel of bone and black glass, sitting above the filth of the world, detached and dreaming. It rose like a blade above the skyline, cruel and perfect, a place meant not for the living but for myths. There were no birds here, no traffic hum—only the sigh of wind across the windows and the low groan of steel breathing in its bones. Inside, silence reigned like an old god. Not empty, but devout. Every surface gleamed too sharply. Every mirror seemed to reflect something not quite there.

Y/N sat at the long, brutalist dining table like a forgotten sentinel. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled to the elbows, his collar open. There was a cut healing on his lip. A faint, wine-dark bruise bloomed beneath one eye. Smoke haloed around his wrist, unfurling from the cigarette he nursed like a rosary. He did not move. Not when the elevator gave its soft, metallic chime. Not when the doors split open with a sigh, ushering her in like a breath of fate.

She entered as though descending from myth.

Alexandra Volkov.

A name that carried old velvet and cold iron. The daughter of a dynasty stitched together by power and diplomacy, where secrets were currency and smiles were arsenic-laced. She was dressed like a bride in mourning: soft dove-grey silk that whispered over her knees, silver heels that did not dare to click too loudly on the marble. Her hair was pulled back in a crown of braids, pinned with diamonds so small they caught light only when they wanted to.

She stood for a moment on the threshold of that vast, cold room, her hands neatly clasped in front of her.

“Is he here?” she asked, her voice elegant but unsure.

The silence lingered like a beast.

Y/N flicked his gaze toward her. Slowly. Lazily. Like a lion in the heat, disturbed from dreaming. He didn’t rise. Didn’t nod. Only breathed out a thread of smoke that curled through the gold-burnished air like incense rising from the altar of some forgotten god.

“No,” he said. Nothing more.

The sunlight spilling through the windows painted her like marble. Behind her, the city glinted—sharp towers and glass spires, a place built for ruin. She stepped forward, her fingers adjusting the strap of her purse. The scent of her perfume arrived before she did: something floral, expensive, faintly funereal.

“I tried calling,” she said, glancing toward the hallway. “He hasn’t been answering.”

Y/N leaned back in his chair, arms resting on either side like a throne. He tapped ash into a tray carved from obsidian, left to burn slowly. “He rarely does.”

She hesitated. “I need to take him to his tailor. We have a fitting scheduled. For the wedding.”

The word sat in the air like a dropped blade.

Wedding.

It did not echo. It did not pierce. It simply… landed. Soft, unthreatening. And yet Y/N did not flinch. His expression did not shift. Not a ripple crossed the still, ruinous waters of him.

He only looked back toward the skyline, and exhaled. “Mm,” he murmured. “Best be quick. He hates those.”

The truth of it hit her in small, careful pieces. She looked around the room, suddenly realizing how little of it belonged to her fiancé. There was a coat rack with only two coats. A book of ancient poetry lay dog-eared and face-down, next to a bottle of bourbon and a dagger still stained at the hilt. A chessboard halfway through some impossible war. This wasn’t a bachelor’s home.

It was a shared life.

And yet it had no photographs. No past. Only the quiet, clawing ache of a love so vast and private it had devoured its own evidence.

“You live here?” she asked him, her tone more tentative now.

Y/N blinked once. “He likes company,” he said, vaguely.

It was not an answer. Or rather, it was the only one he would give. His eyes—when they slid to her—held nothing of challenge, nothing of cruelty. Only exhaustion. A weariness that settled in the bones of men who had watched empires rise and crumble. Who had loved their kings, and lost them, again and again.

She moved toward the table, careful not to touch anything.

“I didn’t think you’d be so…” She searched for the word. It hovered in the space between them like a moth drawn to the flame of some forbidden knowledge. “Young,” she settled on.

Y/N smiled. Briefly. Not with mirth, but with something darker. “Time doesn’t touch everyone the same way.”

She tilted her head. “Do you mind if I wait?”

He gestured to the couch. She sat. Crossed her legs. A diamond anklet caught the sun and threw a shimmer across the floor.

He lit another cigarette. The match flared like lightning in a storm.

She studied him, as women often did with men who would not speak their affections plainly. She tried to trace the outlines of what had passed between them—Y/N and Illarion—the way one might follow a constellation across myth. Something old and unresolved. Something that hummed like prophecy.

“You love him?” she asked.

The silence that followed was ancient.

“No,” Y/N said, eventually. But his voice betrayed him. It cracked at the edges. Like marble under frost.

She gave him a look—not of pity, but recognition. “Then why do you look like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like a man watching his kingdom being handed to someone else.”

He didn’t reply. His eyes, grey and storm-slick, studied her now with new weight.

“And you,” he murmured. “You’ve come to rule it.”

Alexandra gave the smallest nod. “It was arranged. I don’t pretend otherwise.”

“That makes it worse.”

“Does it?” she asked. “Or does it make it easier to mourn?”

Y/N said nothing for a few moments. “He likes navy,” he said. “Dark grey, sometimes. Don’t dress him in black. It makes him look like his father.”

She only nodded.

She sat in the sanctum of a man she did not yet know, in the ashes of a myth still burning. The light outside dimmed. A siren cried in the distance. Somewhere, far below, the city moved on with its thousand small tragedies.

Above it all, in the cold breath of Olympus, Deidamia sat where Patroclus had refused to kneel.

And for the first time, Alexandra Volkov understood:

She was marrying a man already in mourning.

And the corpse had never been buried.

Only crowned.

The elevator chimed again.

This time, it wasn’t Eurydice emerging from Hades—but Hades himself, dressed in a tailored coat the color of mourning doves, smile already lit like a torch he didn’t know he was about to drop.

Illarion Lucero walked in with the careless grace of a crowned serpent. His cufflinks gleamed like teeth. A sun bruise lingered on the side of his neck. His watch ticked like a blade being sharpened. The air around him changed—stiffened, then curved, like it had learned long ago to brace itself when he entered a room.

“Alexandra,” he said, all silk and shine, striding toward Alexandra with arms half-opened.

She rose—gently, like a tide—and smiled. It was perfect, practiced. The smile that was in every family portrait, every press release.

“Illarion.”

He kissed her cheek, briefly, then turned to Y/N, who still sat at the table with his cigarette burning like an hourglass turned sideways.

“I see the two of you have met,” Illarion said, attempting levity.

Y/N didn’t respond. Not a nod, not a glance. He inhaled slowly, letting the smoke fill his lungs the way others filled confessionals—heavily, too late.

Illarion pressed on, his voice brighter than it needed to be. “Alexandra, this is Y/N. My… oldest friend.”

At that, Y/N looked up.

The words fell into the room like wet ash.

Friend.

There was a pause, and then Y/N said—softly, but with the clarity of a scalpel—

“I need to pick up the new pliers. The ones with the rounded grip. His teeth won’t come out otherwise.”

Illarion’s smile froze.

Alexandra blinked. “I—I’m sorry?”

Y/N tilted his head as if he hadn’t heard her. Or maybe as if she were a wind chime in the next room, decorative and faint. His tone didn’t change—low, hoarse, almost gentle, like reading a grocery list.

“He begged last time. All that sniveling. I want it quiet tonight. I want him to think he has time.”

Silence rippled like silk torn in half.

Illarion’s jaw tensed, ever so slightly. “Y/N.”

But Y/N was already rising, stretching like a wolf uncurling from its winter. He stubbed out the cigarette, grabbed his coat from the chair. The cigarette tray had tiny flecks of dried blood along its rim.

Alexandra didn’t speak. Her lips parted slightly, not in fear—but in recognition. She’d seen men like him in war zones, not in ballrooms. Ghosts who’d never fully died.

“Illarion,” Y/N said with mock politeness, brushing past them both.

Alexandra flinched as his shoulder brushed hers. Not from contact, but cold. He was cold—utterly, unnaturally cold.

At the door, Y/N paused.

“Have fun at the fittings,” he murmured without looking back. “She’ll want velvet, I imagine. Or silk. Something that doesn’t cling to bloodstains.”

Then he left.

The door shut behind him with the finality of a guillotine.

For a moment, neither of them moved. The penthouse was too still, as if the walls themselves were unwilling to breathe until his shadow fully disappeared.

“I—” Alexandra started, then faltered. She placed a hand on her necklace, steadying herself. “He’s…”

“Difficult,” Illarion supplied. “He’s… complicated.”

“He doesn’t like me.”

“He doesn’t like anyone.”

“But he loves you,” she said, simply.

Illarion turned then, sharply. “That’s not—”

But he didn’t finish.

Because Alexandra wasn’t looking at him. She was watching the place where Y/N had stood, her expression unreadable. Not afraid. Not judgmental. Just… curious. Like a priestess trying to interpret an omen from the entrails of a sacrificed lamb.

“I’ll wait in the car,” she said softly, reaching for her coat. “Let me know when you’re ready.”

She walked out with the same grace she came in—part ghost, part queen, a woman who now knew that the kingdom she was being married into was haunted. Not by death, but by a devotion so old and so unacknowledged that it had grown teeth.

Illarion stood alone in the center of his penthouse, between two half-drunk glasses of wine and a book of Sappho’s fragments left spine-up on the coffee table.

A breeze slid through the open balcony doors.

Far below, the city moved like a dark sea.

He didn’t follow her. Didn’t speak. Only stared at the closed door Y/N had vanished behind, something ancient flaring in his chest like a forgotten wound re-opened.

In some old ruin of himself, he remembered how Achilles had wept—not when Briseis was taken, but when Patroclus refused to look at him.

And he understood, with sudden, terrible clarity—

That marrying a woman would not sever the thread between them.

Not even with a blade.

The day bled slowly into dusk, the sun’s last golden spear fracturing into bruised shades of amethyst and ash, as Illarion stepped away from the gilded cage of wedding fittings—those sacred rites of silk and lace, veiling a destiny heavy as Atlas’s burden, a fate writ not for him but for the house he was born to uphold. The city sprawled beneath him like a restless Hades, its tangled veins of light and shadow pulsing with whispered prayers and silent condemnations.

In his palm, the cold circle of the ring lay like a frozen promise, a circlet forged of iron and gold, destined to bind him to a life he did not wish to live. His mind, a tempest of unrest, churned with thoughts that could not be silenced—the echo of a shadow he could neither command nor release.

The path to Acheron was a descent, a falling away from the marble temples of power into a subterranean world woven from velvet, smoke, and whispered sins. The brothel nestled like a secret wound in the city’s flesh, its unmarked door a portal to another realm—where silk caressed sinew, where whispered lies wove tangled webs around broken desires.

Illarion crossed its threshold like Orpheus entering the underworld, silent and burdened, a king in exile among the lost and the damned.

Inside, the scent of amber and musk clung to the air like an old lament, thick and knowing. Laughter rose and fell like distant waves—sharp as a blade flicked just beyond reach. Shadows pressed against scarlet walls, the curtains swaying in slow, hypnotic rhythm, like the breath of some slumbering beast.

He moved through the labyrinth of bodies and stories—past women crowned with jewels and sorrow, past men drowning in forgetfulness and fleeting touch—until he found the quiet eye of the storm, the private chamber where fate and fury entwined.

There, bathed in the dim glow of a single lamp, sat Y/N.

Smoke curled from his cigarette like a serpent coiling through the underbrush, tendrils catching the light like flickering whispers of lost gods. His shirt hung open at the collar, revealing bruises deep and dark as midnight moons, scattered like constellations across pale skin. He lounged with the ease of one who had bargained with demons, the sharp edges of his presence softened only by the girl beside him.

Lynelle.

She was a contradiction wrought from shadow and flame—a flicker of innocence encased in resolve sharpened like a blade. Her dark eyes held the quiet intensity of one who had seen too much and chosen silence as armor. Her hands rested still in her lap, statuesque and serene, carved to endure tempests both mortal and divine.

Y/N’s fingers traced through her hair with a tenderness that belonged to a forgotten world—a realm where pain could be soothed by touch, where loneliness might be made lighter by the mere presence of another.

Illarion lingered at the door, the sight piercing deeper than any sword. The weight of unspoken histories settled around them, thick as dust in the still air, suffocating in its gravity.

“Y/N,” Illarion’s voice cut through the hush, rough and tight with restrained fury.

Y/N’s eyes flicked upward, slow and unreadable—dark pools reflecting the half-light of a world he’d long ceased to trust.

“I’m busy.”

“With her?” Illarion’s words were a blade sheathed in concern. With a whore? Is she more important than i am?

A ghost of a smile curled at Y/N’s lips—half mocking, half mournful. “Jealous?”

The word fell between them, sharp and careless—not for Lynelle, never for Lynelle—but for the invisible chains binding them in silence and fire.

Illarion’s temper flared like a struck match, but he swallowed it back behind a mask of cold resolve. “You’re coming with me. Now.”

Y/N rose then, stretching like a predator reluctant to leave its prey. His movement was languid, effortless, brushing past Illarion with a chill that lingered like a specter.

Before following, Illarion approached the bar where Salomé, the madam, regarded him with eyes deep as Tartarus—ancient pools reflecting sins and stories of a thousand souls consigned to her doors.

“You don’t like her,” Illarion murmured, nodding toward Lynelle, who remained where she was, waiting for Y/N to come back.

Salomé exhaled a plume of smoke, her gaze never leaving the chamber. “No one does. Except him.”

He searched her face for jest. Found none.

“Why her?”

Her voice dropped to a whisper, heavy with years and memory. “Because she listens. Because she asks no questions she does not wish answered. Because she reminds him… of things he fights to forget.”

Illarion frowned. “Like what?”

“The past,” Salomé breathed. “She reminds me so much of her— Y/N’s mother. A woman of fire and shadow—born of a different world, yet made to burn in this one.”

Illarion’s fingers clenched around his glass. “She was a whore.” Illarion had heard his father call her that so many times, behind closed doors, and only for Rylan to hear.

Salomé nodded slowly. “And he loved her.”

“Impossible.”

“Love is never clean,” she said, voice thick with knowing. “She was his first rebellion—the flame his father was warned against. A wild thing that did not belong in a house built of stone and blood. The fire he could not let go, the ash he never stopped smelling on his skin.”

Illarion swallowed hard, the ghosts of old stories stirring like restless phantoms—the bitter echoes of love and betrayal, of power and fragility entwined like serpents.

“And the girl?” he pressed, voice a fragile breath. “The one with Y/N,”

Salomé’s smile was thin—razor sharp. “She is the shadow of that flame. The promise of something more dangerous than love. She holds him when the world shatters, and he… lets her. They just talk. Y/N doesnt take her to his bed, not like he does with the other girls. I suppose she is different. They sit together and talk, sometimes she nurses his wounds.”

“What?

“She’s a medical student. Pays off her tuition from here. And Y/N always leaves a generous tip, almost as if he’s the one being done a favor.”

Illarion’s mind raced, pieces falling into a cruel mosaic. The ring in his pocket burned cold—a frozen oath to a woman he barely knew—while the man he could not lose sat deep in the underworld of Acheron, bound by silent chains forged from pain and loyalty.

The brothel was a world apart—a cavern carved from velvet and shadows, a secret alcove where the city’s sins bled soft and dark. The heavy scent of amber and musk hung thick like incense before a forgotten altar, a place where whispered prayers went unanswered and every stolen touch was a whispered oath.

Illarion remained rooted near the bar, his eyes fixed on the quiet storm unfolding in the private chamber. Salomé’s voice—a low chant of stories and warnings—wove a tapestry of past and present, but beneath the words beat the wild rhythm of something raw and untamable: Y/N.

Yet, while Illarion wrestled with ghosts, the figure he sought slipped away—a shadow melting from the light like a silent wind through ancient ruins.

Y/N moved toward Lynelle with the ease of a mythic hunter threading through the dense forest of forgotten gods. His steps were silent, a grace born from battles fought in silence and blood, his presence a quiet invocation of a name spoken in half-forgotten prayers.

Lynelle sat still, like Briseis bound not by chains but by an invisible thread of shared pain and stolen moments. She was both prisoner and sanctuary—a flicker of soft flame in the dark tempest of Y/N’s fractured world. Her eyes, deep and ancient, held the quiet sorrow of Hades’ captive, yet there was steel beneath that sorrow—an ember refusing to be snuffed out.

Y/N paused beside her, the bruises on his skin pale moons beneath the flickering lamp. Where Illarion’s touch was the wrath of Ares—wild, demanding, scorching—Y/N’s was the gentle hand of Apollo’s lyre, quiet and healing. A benediction whispered softly in a world made sharp by knives and fire.

He leaned down, and his lips met hers in a kiss that was a sigh—soft as the breath of night winds weaving through olive groves, tender as the shadow of a laurel leaf cast upon marble statues.

It was a kiss without fury, without possession. A quiet promise made in the language of broken souls.

Lynelle’s dark eyes fluttered closed, surrendering not to weakness but to the fragile refuge found only in this stolen moment. The weight of history pressed upon them—the stolen queen, the captive beloved—yet here, in this stolen kiss, there was no chain, only fleeting freedom.

All the while, Illarion watched. His breath caught like a falcon’s cry piercing the dusk. The storm within him churned—jealousy, desire, something older and darker—an ache as ancient as the grief of Achilles for his Patroclus.

He stood still, the cold marble beneath his feet a pale echo of the frozen fury in his chest. The ring in his pocket burned with the chill of inevitability, a binding not just of promise, but of sacrifice.

Here was a truth no crown could silence: Y/N belonged to a world Illarion could not conquer. A world woven from shadows and whispered loyalties, from pain and protection intertwined like serpents on a staff.

As the kiss lingered, a fragile thread stretched taut between the three—an invisible triad of power and passion, devotion and desperation, love’s cruel geometry.

The bride-to-be waited outside the threshold of this hidden realm, unaware of the quiet wars waging in the spaces between.

And in the hush of the brothel’s dim light, beneath the ghosts of gods and kings, the fate of these entwined souls hung trembling—like the first leaf trembling before autumn’s breath.

uh, so yeah, there we go. Illarion is getting married. good for him. i wanted to add more of the world building details but refrained from it. if i write anymore about these gay and repressed losers, I’ll end up losing my mind.

also sneak peek: next chapter will talk about the other faction who are involved in the story, another crime family. i already mentioned that this will be kind of like a Iliad retelling thingy. so maybe, hector x female reader in the future? we’ll see. i have no many ideas.

[synchodai]

Gortash headcanons:

Gort corresponded with Zariel regarding the development of Karlach's infernal engine and is his supplier of Infernal Iron that goes back to his arms-dealing days.

Hates riddles and long-winded monologues, preferring to be a straight shooter (unlike his former "guardian" who loves to obfuscate with theatrics). A "says it like it is" politician (which means he's openly cruel instead of subtextually cruel).

Has property in the Upper City he barely uses, preferring to stay in his office (busy with work) or Flymm's Cobblers (something something damaged inner child).

Deliberately cultivates a less "polished" aesthetic to sell himself as a "man of the people."

Judging by how much he took cues from Sarevok (arms-dealing, distributing "weird" iron, Iron Throne, infiltrating the Council of Four, etc), he probably knows more about the Bhaalspawn crisis than Durge/Orin whose information on it is probably warped and limited.

Bombs in teddy bears was a prototype to the Steel Watchers' self-detonation devices.

Designed the Steel Watch as a deliberate counter to how Bhaalists fight (detects Invisibility, can't be surprised, crossbow that pins down an agile target, immune to poison and fear).

Totally fucked Franc Peartree.

[iphigeniacomplex]

Frustrated, Arya threw down the brush. “Bad wolf!” she shouted. Sansa couldn’t help but smile a little. The kennelmaster once told her that an animal takes after its master.

—Sansa II, A Game of Thrones

“You’re a good girl, Sansa, but I do vow, when it comes to that creature you’re as willful as your sister Arya.”

—Sansa II, A Game of Thrones

“My daughter often forgets her courtesies,” Eddard Stark said with a faint smile that softened his words.

—Arya III, A Game of Thrones

“A royal wheelhouse is no place for a wolf,” Sansa said. [...] She turned to walk off, but Arya shouted after her, “They won’t let you bring Lady either.” She was gone before Sansa could think of a reply, chasing Nymeria along the river.

—Sansa II, A Game of Thrones

Sansa dropped to her knees to wrap her arms around the wolf. They were all gathered around gaping, she could feel their eyes on her, and here and there she heard muttered comments and titters of laughter. “A wolf,” a man said, and someone else said, “Seven hells, that’s a direwolf,” and the first man said, “What’s it doing in camp?” and the Hound’s rasping voice replied, “The Starks use them for wet nurses,” and Sansa realized that the two stranger knights were looking down on her and Lady, swords in their hands, and then she was frightened again, and ashamed.

—Sansa II, A Game of Thrones

“No,” she said. “No, not Lady, Lady didn’t bite anybody, she’s good…”

—Eddard VII, A Game of Thrones

She woke murmuring, “Please, please, I’ll be good, I’ll be good, please don’t,” but there was no one to hear.

—Sansa VI, A Game of Thrones

“Send Arya away, she started it, Father, I swear it. I’ll be good, you’ll see, just let me stay and I promise to be as fine and noble and courteous as the queen.”

—Sansa III, A Game of Thrones

The queen had given her freedom of the castle as a reward for being good,

—Sansa V, A Game of Thrones

“Stop them,” Sansa pleaded, “don’t let them do it, please, please, it wasn’t Lady, it was Nymeria, Arya did it, you can’t, it wasn’t Lady, don’t let them hurt Lady, I’ll make her be good, I promise, I promise…”

—Eddard VII, A Game of Thrones

“[...] What’s wrong with the girl?” Bran felt all cold inside. “She lost her wolf,” he said, weakly, remembering the day when four of his father’s guardsmen had returned from the south with Lady’s bones. Summer and Grey Wind and Shaggydog had begun to howl before they crossed the drawbridge, in voices drawn and desolate. Beneath the shadow of the First Keep was an ancient lichyard, its headstones spotted with pale lichen, where the old Kings of Winter had laid their faithful servants. It was there they buried Lady, while her brothers stalked between the graves like restless shadows. She had gone south, and only her bones had returned.

—Bran VI, A Game of Thrones

She was a good girl, and always remembered her courtesies.

—Sansa VI, A Game of Thrones

[echantedtoon]

Yandere Burning Spice Cookie x Reader

I did a Shadow Milk Cookie one so I wanted to do another one with my other favorite Beast.

-The Herald Of Change was once a benevolent force driving away evil like his other four virtues. He knew all changes and loved the cycles that came with it, until the weight.and burden of an unbroken cycle caused his fall. Until he was the evil he fought against to stop. Now as destruction, he vowed to destroy all changes as he saw fit.

-Even so there was just ONE thing he left unchanged and that was his love for you, however as with himself that love turned to something destructive. Obsession. Obsession that tainted him and tied you up so far in his grasp you suffocated and crumbled like most come int contact with him. Only saved when he was imprisoned by the witches.

-You were finally free to live your own life but sometimes it still felt like you were..watched. Not by Nutmeg Tiger Cookie. You gave her the slip years ago, and she was too busy trying to find ways to free her master to bother with you anyways. Unbeknownst to you you were being followed by the ghost of your former lover. Overtime his body had withered somehow inside the tree but but spirit was able to wonder about(Referencing to story between Wind Archer Cookie and Ghost Shadow Milk Cookie), and wonder he did following you around unknown to everyone.

-As a ghost he couldn't do anything, only watch as his power was still stuck to the tree and without a vessel he was completely useless. Like an invisible hologram no one could hear. It infuriated him that no matter how loud he screamed, you never heard him. No matter how hard he swung, he couldn't hit a single face of any of the few lovers you did take over the same. They didn't deserve you!! YOU COULDN'T HAVE ANYONE BUT HIM!! YOU WERE HIS!! DON'T YOU GET THAT?!

-The only time he was able to truly get free was when he acquired a new body, and when the tree finally collapsed. And every Beast was freed. The first thing he does once he's freed is come after you. Not search for his Soul Jam, not mobilize his forces, but FIND YOU!! You're right where you are. Doors and walls crumble as Burning Spice literally breaks down buildings and crumbles cookies to ash, eyes fixated on your terrified and screaming form until he corners you.

-Once he has you in his arms again, he's tense and breathing heavy. It takes all his restraint to not crush you as he hugs your pathetically scared fork against his chest. This feels good. It feels RIGHT having you terrified against him again right where you belong.

-Not long after you're dragged kicking and screaming back deep into the Spice lands to regroup with his forced and seek out Golden Cheese Cookie. You soon find yourself in his old throne room. You're trapped.

-You're adorned in silks matching his aesthetics black, orange, yellows, reds, and whites and golds. Adorned in much gold and jewels and given female spice servants at your back and call(he doesn't trust men servants around you at all costs). Speaking of gold, you hand a pure gold chain around your ankle, only letting you go as far as the throne room.

-He likes to have you sit next to his throne on giant comfy pillows or in his lap as he holds battle meetings, one arm always around you holding you close to him as he tells you proudly of his conquests to impress you. Bur he's scared. Won't admit it. He's scared of the change of loosing you so he'll keep you anyway he knows how. Even if he has to use force to do so.

[misshoneyimhome]

What's up buttercups!

We’re getting close to the end now—but don’t worry, there are still a few sparkles left to scatter ✨ And who better to bring a little joy (and chaos) than Auston’s delightful family? 💕 So sit back, pour yourself a mimosa, and soak in these last few chapters. I hope they make you smile as much as they made me while writing them.

Happy reading, babes 😘

Tropes & warnings: inexperienced!reader x Auston Matthews, meet cute, strangers to friends, fake relationship, language, 18+ soft: fingering, unprotected sexual intercourse (v), interrupted sex, cum inside, soft!Auston

Word count: 7.6k Chapter one ; Chapter two ; Chapter three ; Chapter four ; Chapter five ; Chapter six ; Chapter seven ; Chapter eight ; Chapter nine; Chapter ten; Chapter eleven; Chapter twelve; Chapter thirteen ; Chapter fourteen ; Chapter fifteen

Some who might have interest: @hockeybabe87 @tonyspep @thesecretestblogever @delayed-delusions @kurlyteuvo @emsdevs

➼｡ﾟ

Chapter sixteen: Pawn to Heart Four

::

”Dearest Toronto readers,

Oh, have you felt it? That tremor beneath the ice? That subtle shift in the wind?

Something is different in the kingdom. Our Queen—usually poised, press-ready, and perfectly composed—has gone quiet. Not a post, not a sighting, not a whisper from within the castle walls. And if you believe the silence means peace, you haven’t been paying attention.

Because something happened. We don’t know what, exactly, but we’re trained in reading between the lines—and this one feels jagged. A fracture disguised as stillness. The smile’s still there, but it’s sitting wrong. The Ice King hasn’t been himself either. More brooding than usual. And if our intel is correct, a visitor has landed in Toronto. One with very high standards and a no-nonsense approach to royal entanglements.

Yes, darlings. There are rumours of a royal inspection. A maternal one. And if the Queen isn’t ready to defend her throne, someone else just might step in to question how real her reign is.

Secrets might survive in shadows, but they squirm in sunlight—and Toronto’s just turned up the heat.

Hold on to your crowns.

Yours always,

The Benchwarmer”

_

Saturday -

You woke to warmth. To stillness.

Auston’s arm was draped over your waist, his chest pressed flush to your back, the steady cadence of his breathing ghosting across your shoulder. His body curved around yours like it had always belonged there—like muscle memory, like instinct. His leg was hooked between yours, keeping you tangled in place beneath the weight of his hold and the thick duvet pulled up to your ribs.

You didn’t move.

Not at first.

Because the moment felt dangerous in a way you hadn’t expected.

Too soft. Too intimate. And way too real.

Your eyes fluttered open slowly, adjusting to the dim light pooling into the room from the streetlamp outside. His bedroom smelled like sleep and sweat and skin and sex. Faint traces of cedarwood clung to the sheets, warm and smoky. The ache between your thighs reminded you of how good it had been—how intense—and your skin still bore the proof of it: faint bruises on your hips, a scrape from his stubble along your collarbone, the shadow of teeth where he’d bitten your shoulder just hard enough to make you moan his name.

You should’ve felt wrecked.

But you didn’t.

You felt… kept.

And that was the real danger.

Auston stirred behind you, his breath catching slightly, his hold tightening as though even asleep, he wasn’t ready to let you go. His palm moved to rest flat against your stomach, fingers spread. You could feel the heat of him, his body wrapped around yours like shelter. And for a moment, you let yourself imagine it wasn’t fake at all. That this wasn’t temporary. That this kind of waking up—this kind of peace—was something you could choose.

He made a soft sound in his sleep, and you felt it in your spine, low and familiar. You knew that sound. You knew him. His temper, his laugh, the exact angle of his smirk when he was up to something. You knew how he liked his coffee and how he tensed his jaw when he was holding something back. You knew the way he kissed—lazy and slow until he wasn’t. And you knew how he made you feel.

You closed your eyes for half a second longer, before you then slipped out from under his arm, careful not to wake him.

Your bare feet hit the floor, cool against the wood as you padded over to the corner where your clothes had landed. You pulled on your sweater and jeans without turning on the light. Mascara smudged faintly beneath your eyes when you caught your reflection in the mirror, but you didn’t bother fixing it. You looked like you’d been ruined—which you had.

And the worst part?

You’d asked for it.

You’d loved it.

And now you wanted more.

You paused in the doorway just to turn back a second.

Auston lay on his side now, face buried in the pillow, the duvet low on his waist, one hand fisted where your body used to be. His lashes were dark against flushed cheeks, lips slightly parted. He looked peaceful. Beautiful. Almost yours.

But he wasn’t. Not really.

So, you stepped out quietly and typed the message as you waited for the lift.

You: Thanks for last night.

Short and safe.

You added nothing else. No emojis. No punctuation. No softness.

Because if you gave yourself an inch, you’d forget this wasn’t supposed to matter.

And that kind of forgetting?

That was how you got hurt.

_

The group chat had been buzzing since Thursday morning with a flurry of emojis, nail colour polls, and screenshots of HydraFacial benefits. You had had the time to stop by your place, quickly grab a back with all the essentials, before stepping through the large glass doors. 

The spa lobby smelled like eucalyptus and something soft and floral—probably rose water. Sunlight spilled through tall windows and made everything glow. And you were barely through the door before Stephanie spotted you.

“There she is!” she beamed, rising from a plush lounger in her fuzzy white robe. “We thought you ditched us for another group of friends. Or worse: work!”

“Not this time,” you chuckled, letting her pull you in for a cheek kiss.

Tessa was already perched near the juice bar, flipping through a glossy magazine while waiting for her matcha. “Don’t listen to her,” she said. “She just wants to hear more gossip. Preferably about Auston’s abs.”

You laughed and set your tote down, slipping into the flow of conversation as naturally as you could. The chatter was breezy—soothing, even—like a sleepover hosted by women who’d traded pillow fights for collagen masks and Cartier bracelets.

“Max still refuses to label his food in the fridge,” Estelle sighed. “I caught him drinking my green juice straight from the bottle.”

“Oh my god,” Stephanie groaned. “Mitch does this thing where he leaves his laundry near the basket. Not in it. Near. Like it’s allergic to being inside.”

There were snorts and knowing glances. Someone handed you a mimosa. You sipped it slowly, smiling more easily than you expected to.

“Okay but,” Estelle then said, narrowing her eyes playfully, “is Auston a toothbrush-leaver?”

You tilted your head. “What?”

“You know,” she said with a smirk. “Has he left one at your place yet? Toothbrushes are like… milestone one.”

“Oh, come on,” Tessa jumped in. “That’s after the hoodie claim, but before sharing a Netflix profile. It’s practically science.”

You tried to laugh, but it came out a little breathy. “No toothbrush,” you said. “But there may be a charger,” you lied. 

There was a fresh round of teasing. A flurry of giggles and gasps. Someone—maybe Estelle—suggested that meant he was practically moving in.

You didn’t correct them.

But even as you settled into a massage chair, even as your feet soaked in warm water and your fingernails were buffed to a shine, your phone sat just beside your thigh, screen up. Waiting.

Nothing.

Jess still hadn’t replied.

You’d texted her that morning again. And then again in the Uber on the way over. You’d liked a meme she posted yesterday, just to try for some soft entry point. But still—no read receipts. No bubbles. No blue ticks. Nothing.

And as soon as you had a small window, you excused yourself after the third mimosa, claiming you needed to reapply lip-liner. You stepped into the hallway near the locker rooms, thumb hovering over the screen before you gave in. Again.

You: I’m sorry so sorry Jess! Please talk to me. 

Still no reply.

The knot in your chest was tighter than it had been when you arrived. You leaned against the wall, exhaling slowly before slipping your phone back into your robe pocket and heading toward the sauna.

Inside, the women were still buzzing— draped in towels, skin dewy and flushed from steam. Someone had started retelling the time a player got locked out of his own house naked. You sat down, laughed when expected, nodded when required.

You were having fun. You really were. They were lovely. Warm and so real.

But it didn’t stop the ache.

Because behind every perfectly painted smile and sparkling laugh, your mind was still with Jess. And no matter how hot the sauna got, the cold distance between you refused to thaw.

The second half of the spa day unfolded like something out of a rom-com montage—champagne in hand, robes soft against your skin, the air rich with eucalyptus and laughter. You’d sunk into the plush circle of loungers with the rest of the WAGs, your skin warm and flushed from your massage, your heart still heavy with Jess’s silence.

But here, for a few hours, you let it slip.

“Okay,” Stephanie said, raising her flute, “best travel story. I want missed flights, lost passports, public tantrums. Go.”

Estelle groaned dramatically. “Max once lost his passport inside his skate bag. We nearly missed a connection to Mykonos. His excuse? ‘It’s safe with my gear.’”

Tessa laughed so hard she nearly spilled her drink. “That’s so on brand.”

“Oh, wait,” chimed Ella. “I once had to use hand signals to tell Matty he’d packed only gym shorts for a wedding weekend.”

The stories kept coming—forgotten anniversaries, awkward family introductions, hotel mishaps—and then, without meaning to, you joined in.

“Auston once thought he could do laundry by mixing dish soap and shampoo,” you said, sipping your champagne. “It foamed so bad the entire laundry room looked like a bubble rave.”

The group exploded in laughter.

It wasn’t a story you’d experienced firsthand—but he’d told it to you once, half-laughing, half-defensive, and now you found yourself retelling it like you’d been there.

“No!” Stephanie cried. “Stop it. That man is close to thirty years old!”

“Mentally? More like fifteen,” you replied, grinning.

“You’re so whipped,” Tessa teased, pointing her mimosa straw at you. “You talk about him like he hung the stars.”

You opened your mouth to deflect—but nothing came. Because maybe you did talk about him like that. Maybe it wasn’t just part of the act anymore.

And before you could recover, the conversation took a turn.

“Okay,” Estelle said, leaning in like she was about to share state secrets. “We’ve done the cute stories. Let’s talk sex. Embarrassing kinks, weird sounds, accidental injuries. Who’s going first?”

A chorus of groans and laughter filled the air, and the stories got juicier—Tessa accidentally hitting Morgan in the face during reverse cowgirl, Stephanie confessing Mitch talks a lot during foreplay (“Like a podcast with tongue”), Ella whispering that Matthew owns a vibrating cock ring with settings.

When they turned to you, it felt inevitable.

“C’mon,” Stephanie said. “You can’t not share. Look at you—you’ve got the glow. That man clearly worships at the altar.”

You rolled your eyes, blushing. “You’re insane.”

“Just give us one thing,” Estelle begged. “Is he soft and slow? Rough and bossy? Does he dirty talk or just look at you like a threat?”

You bit your lip, cheeks hot. “He’s… intense.”

A chorus of shrieks followed.

“Oh my god,” Stephanie moaned. “She’s being cryptic. That means he’s filthy.”

“He has a praise kink,” you added, before you could stop yourself.

Silence. Then chaos.

“Knew it!”

“Fucking called it!”

“I bet he says ‘good girl’ like it’s a benediction.”

You laughed, face buried in your hands as they hooted and clapped and toasted you like you’d just won a gold medal in sex. And for a minute, you forgot the ache in your chest. Forgot the pit in your stomach. Forgot Jess.

But only for a minute.

The day wrapped slowly. Robes were folded, hugs exchanged, Instagram posts posted, and spa bags packed. You lingered in the locker room, dabbing tinted lip balm on in the mirror, your phone buzzing on the bench beside you.

You didn’t expect it to be her.

Jess: Still can’t believe you’d ever lie to me like that. To us. But for what it’s worth, your secret’s safe with me.

You froze. Your breath caught. Your hands stilled.

You read it once. Twice. The ache in your chest didn’t return—it had just been waiting.

Then, three dots blinked.

Jess: We’ll talk. Just not now.

It wasn’t forgiveness. But it wasn’t final. And for now… that was enough to keep breathing.

You sat down slowly, phone clutched in your hand like it was the only thing anchoring you.

Your mascara was still perfect. But your heart wasn’t.

And at that very moment, you didn’t want to go home. You couldn’t. Because you didn’t want to be alone or to feel lonely. So, you opened another message.

You: You’re still home?

_

He opened the door within seconds of your knock. No questions, no raised brows, no words. Just Auston standing there barefoot in nothing but a pair of dark boxers, his curls still slightly damp from a recent shower, his eyes dark and tired but open.

You didn’t speak either. Not at first.

Instead, you stepped forward and let his hands find your face, his fingers threading through your hair as your forehead pressed gently to his. You stood like that for a few heartbeats, letting your breath sync with his, letting the quiet wrap around you like a blanket.

Then he stepped aside.

You walked in, familiar now with the rhythm of his apartment. The soft lighting. The low hum of the fridge. The subtle scent of it all. You kicked off your shoes and made your way straight to the bedroom, not because you were tired, but because you didn’t want to exist anywhere else.

Felix’s tail thumped once against the floor as you passed him curled on the hallway rug. He blinked up at you sleepily, then stood and padded after you on soft paws, as if sensing you needed the company tonight.

Auston followed a few moments later. Still quiet. Still shirtless. In the low light of the room, his body looked softer somehow, not in form but in energy. Not a hockey god. Just a man.

He watched as you peeled off your clothes slowly—one layer at a time. There was nothing seductive in it, nothing that begged to be touched. You folded your sweater and jeans at the end of the bed and stood in your thong, feeling the weight of his gaze but not threatened by it.

He didn’t move until you did, walking toward the bed and sitting on the edge. Then he pulled open his drawer, tugged out the same long T-shirt you’d worn the morning earlier, and handed it to you without a word.

You took it and pulled it over your head.

Then you climbed into his bed, sheets still faintly wrinkled from last night, and settled against the cool cotton. Felix jumped up a second later, circling once before curling into the crook behind your knees like a warm, breathing anchor.

Auston got in after you. No ceremony. Just the soft dip of the mattress and the shift of his body as he lay beside you. He joined you beneath the covers, propped on one elbow, head resting against his arm while watching you.

“You okay?” he asked quietly.

You offered him a gentle smile and nodded.

“Had a fun day with the wags,” you said softly.

Auston’s eyes offered a gentle expression, as if flashing a smile when his lips weren’t doing it.

But then you continued, “Jess texted.”

Auston’s expression shifted slightly. “What’d she say?”

You turned onto your side as well before answering. “Still can’t believe you’d ever lie to me like that. To us. But for what it’s worth, your secret’s safe with me.”

His hand found your lower back, warm and steady. He didn’t speak right away. Just rubbed slow circles.

“I’m sorry,” he said eventually.

You closed your eyes. “Me too.”

The silence after that wasn’t heavy. It just… existed. Like you both needed it. Like filling it would mean admitting that you didn’t know how to fix what you’d broken.

You shifted closer as he turned onto his back, resting your head against his chest. He wrapped his arm around you. His hand trailed lightly up and down your spine, his breathing slow and even. Felix gave a quiet sigh and stretched his paws, his warmth a comforting weight at your feet.

“We’re a mess,” you whispered, almost laughing.

But Auston simply huffed a breath that was close enough to a laugh. “Speak for yourself. I’m perfect.”

You chuckled. Just a little.

And for the first time, there was no sex. No hunger. No lessons or desires to be filled. Just presence. Just the soft warmth of his skin, the hum of his heartbeat in your ear, and the quiet companionship of a sleepy dog who didn’t ask for explanations.

And for now, that was enough. _

“Darlings, if you felt the shift in the air this weekend, you weren’t imagining it. Our Queen spent the day surrounded by cotton robes, spa water, and the sweet sound of partner gossip—yes, WAGs were present, and yes, the mimosa-fuelled confessions were flowing.

But while the others giggled over toothbrushes left behind and boxers gone mysteriously missing, our Queen kept checking her phone. One name absent from the group chat. One silence louder than the rest.

Still, she smiled. She played along. And she slipped out with grace… only to end the night not in her own bed, but back in familiar arms.

No flashy exits. No post-game kisses. Just a quiet arrival and a quieter night.

Which begs the question: can comfort be more seductive than passion? Is it the touches without tension, the hands in hair and wordless understanding, that make something real?

We’ve all seen them heat up. But now we’re watching something else settle in. Something slower. Softer. And maybe more dangerous.

And while the Ice King plays it cool, we must wonder… who else is watching?

Because this isn’t just a game anymore. It’s domestic. And that’s the kind of move that makes people nervous —The Benchwarmer”

_

Sunday -

Once again, you awoke and were greeted by warmth. With your face tucked against Auston’s chest, your nose nudged into the soft muscle of his pec, and the slow, steady rise and fall of his breathing anchoring you to the moment. His arm was curled protectively around your back, and his thumb was brushing in slow, lazy circles along your bare skin just beneath the hem of the borrowed T-shirt you still wore.

And for a while, you didn’t move. 

Felix had left during the night, but the warmth of the bed, his body, the sheer stillness of the room—it felt like floating in a space where nothing could reach you. Auston’s heartbeat thumped softly against your cheek, a quiet rhythm that made your eyelids flutter, your thoughts slow as you blinked your eyes open.

“You’re awake,” you murmured after a moment, your voice still husky from sleep.

“Have been for a few minutes,” Auston replied, his tone low, like it hadn’t quite caught up with the morning. “Didn’t wanna move.”

You tilted your head back slightly to look at him. His hair was a mess. So was yours. His eyes were half-lidded and soft, a little crinkled at the corners from smiling before he even spoke.

“I probably have dragon breath,” you warned with a sleepy grimace.

“Don’t care,” he said, and then—just to prove it—he shifted his body and dipped his head and kissed you. Light at first, lips brushing, then firmer, surer, like he couldn’t help himself. You tasted sleep and skin and something faintly sweet from the night before.

Your fingers threaded into his messy hair. His hand slid under the hem of the T-shirt, palm dragging slowly up your spine. The kiss deepened. Shifted. Your thighs parted instinctively when his knee slid between them, and that’s when you felt it.

Auston grinned into your mouth. “You feel that?”

“Hard to miss,” you breathed, letting your hand trail down between you until your fingers grazed the clear hard outline of him beneath his boxers. “Morning wood or just happy to see me?”

“Can’t it be both?”

You laughed softly, breath hitching, and kissed him again. Then he rolled slightly, pushing you gently onto your back, his hand slipping down between your legs, fingers confident and warm as they dipped beneath the fabric of your panties.

You gasped lightly, spine arching from the mattress, his name spilling from your lips like a prayer. “Auston—”

“Shh,” he murmured, lips brushing your throat, his voice nothing but a hush against your skin. “I just want to feel you.”

His fingers moved with slow intent, curling inside you with the kind of confidence that came from knowing exactly how to make you melt. Every motion was deliberate—measured—not rushed or frenzied, but deeply focused, like he was trying to memorise the way you pulsed around him. Wetness pooled easily, your body giving in to him with no resistance at all.

Your hand found its way beneath the waistband of his boxers, curling around the length of his cock. You stroked him in rhythm with the steady press of his fingers, feeling him twitch against your palm, thick and hot and patient.

There was no urgency. No edge. Just warmth and connection. A silent kind of intimacy that built in the quiet spaces between breaths.

And when he finally peeled away what remained of your clothes and tugged off his boxers, there were no words—just the shift of his weight, the way he guided your legs open with a reverent touch, and the soft press of his mouth to yours before he rolled you gently beneath him.

His body came down over yours, heavy and grounding, skin brushing skin, his gaze locked to yours as he pushed inside in one long, careful thrust.

You both exhaled at once.

He didn’t rush. He rocked into you slowly and deeply, every movement unspoken proof that this wasn’t about hunger—it was about closeness. About the way your body welcomed him like it had been waiting for this. For him. 

Your fingers curled into his shoulders. His mouth dropped to your jaw.  You wrapped your legs around his hips, and the world narrowed to the quiet glide of his body and the sweet stretch between your thighs.

Then with a surge of confidence, you initiated a push - he got the message, and you rolled him over, straddling his waist in one fluid motion, breathless but grinning. He matched it, hands slipping to your hips as you settled on top of him, your bodies already slick, already so close to the edge.

You moved slowly at first, a lazy rhythm that let you feel everything—the way he filled you, the way his hands flexed tighter on your waist, the way his breath hitched every time you rolled your hips just right.

He reached up, brushed your hair from your face, and then slid a hand between your thighs, thumb circling your clit with maddening precision.

Your moans rose with every movement, your pace quickening, tension winding tight and desperate in your belly. You leaned back slightly, both hands braced on his chest, as you gasped his name.

“Aus—oh my god—yes… I’m… close…”

But then—

The doorbell rang.

You froze mid-motion. The sound echoed through the apartment like a slap, piercing the thick, hot air you’d created between you. You stared at each other, wide-eyed, breathless.

“No,” you whispered, voice hoarse with disbelief.

Auston’s eyes were already narrowing. “Fuck. No. No, no, no—”

You scrambled off him, nearly falling over your own legs as you grabbed for the sheets. He yanked a blanket over his lap with a speed you hadn’t known he possessed this early in the morning, eyes darting toward the hallway as the bell rang again—this time longer, more insistent.

You stood there, wrecked and flushed and still pulsing with want, your chest rising like you’d run a mile. And then—you both started laughing.

It wasn’t graceful. It was half-panic, half-hysteria, the kind of laughter that shook your shoulders and left you weak.

“I swear to god, if that’s a delivery guy—”

“It’s worse,” Auston confessed almost breathlessly, already pulling on a hoodie with one arm and hopping on one leg as he searched for boxers.

You blinked. “Worse?”

He paused, grimaced. “That’s my mom - and maybe family.”

You let out a strangled yelp. “You said we were meeting them for dinner!”

“I thought they’d come later!” he hissed, dragging the blanket across the bed with one hand, as if that would somehow erase the chaos of what you’d just been doing.

You bolted, grabbing your discarded clothes in a panic. “Bathroom. I’m going to the bathroom. Tell her I’m… meditating.”

He snorted, pulling the hood up over his curls as he turned toward the door. “Yeah, I’ll tell her you’re finding your inner peace. Through loud, repeated moaning.”

You hurled a pillow at him just before you slammed the bathroom door shut behind you.

You were still breathless, half-laughing and half-mortified, as you scrambled into the ensuite and yanked your sweatshirt over your head. Your underwear was missing in action, your jeans were twisted inside out on the floor, and your heart was thundering like it could knock down the door before Auston’s mother even rang it again.

From the bedroom, you heard his hurried footsteps, the muffled curse of someone trying to hop into sweatpants while locating their dignity. “Shit—fuck—Snuff, move—”

You nearly tripped getting into your jeans. “Tell me she doesn’t have a key!”

“She doesn’t—usually!” he called back, the front door already creaking open.

You barely had time to pull your hair into something vaguely normal before you heard it.

“Mijo!” A woman���s voice—bright, familiar, and utterly delighted.

And then: “We brought tamales!”

You froze.

We?

Oh god. That meant all of them.

You peeked out of the bedroom just in time to catch Auston’s horrified smile as Ema stepped inside, followed by a tall man with the same shoulders and brow—his dad, Brian—and then two girls who could only be his sisters: Breyana and Alexandria. A wave of warmth and chaos followed them, like someone had opened the door to a family sitcom with a full laugh track.

You caught Auston’s eye, as he mouthed: I’m so sorry.

And then Ema spotted you instantly.

“Oh!” she gasped, eyes lighting up as she approached. She reached out before you could process what was happening, hands warm as she grasped yours and then pulled you into a gentle hug. “Mi amor, you’re even more beautiful than in pictures.”

Your cheeks burned. “It’s so lovely to meet you, Mrs. Matthews.”

“Ema,” she insisted, pulling back to beam at you. “Please. You’re family now, no formality.”

Your heart did a sharp, confused skip. Family?

Brian gave you a calm, kind nod. “You’re brave to still be here. We don’t usually give warnings.”

“Usually?” you echoed, still a little dazed as Alexandria stepped forward and grinned.

“He means never,” she said, offering a quick hug. “I’m Alex. And he’s never brought anyone home.”

“Technically, I’m not home,” Auston muttered behind you.

“Semantics,” Breyana added. “I’m Bree, by the way.”

They were all… lovely. Disarming, even. The kind of family you expected to overwhelm you, but instead, their energy enveloped you like a soft blanket. And within minutes, Ema had handed you a foil-wrapped tamal and asked if you liked spice, while Brian offered to take Felix out for a quick pee break. The dog, traitorous as ever, had happily followed Auston’s dad to the door, tail wagging like he’d known him his whole life.

Only moments later, you stood in the middle of the living room, warm tamal in hand, suddenly barefoot again and still smelling vaguely of morning sex as Auston came up behind you and gently touched your lower back. “You okay?”

You nodded slowly. “Yeah, I think so. I just… weren’t they supposed to come for dinner?”

“They were. Or I thought they were,” he muttered, rubbing his temple. “This is my punishment, right? For being happy?”

You elbowed him lightly.

But the truth was… you didn’t feel punished.

You felt welcomed.

You hadn’t been prepared for them—hadn’t had time to prepare yourself. But the way Ema smiled like she already knew you, the way Alex teased Auston but turned around to compliment your sweater, the way Brian seemed to radiate calm—you were surprised by how quickly the nerves had faded.

You glanced over to see Ema setting down a tray of food, chatting with her daughters as if she already owned the place. And in a way, maybe she did. She was the kind of woman who carried home in her hands.

And about an hour later, Auston leaned closer to you and whispered, “You’re doing amazing, by the way.”

You turned to him, unable to help your small smile. “You mean not bolting out the window naked? Yeah, I’m pretty proud of that.”

He grinned. “They love you already.”

You weren’t sure if that was true. But standing there in yesterday's sweatshirt and your jeans, with the sun spilling through the windows and the scent of tamales filling the room—you kind of believed it.

A couple of hours later, the air outside was crisp but kind—the kind of rare, golden November day that felt borrowed from early October. A little miracle. The city had shed its usual grey mood for bright skies, and you were grateful for it as you tugged on Auston’s hoodie, still warm from the dryer, and followed the sound of laughter toward the front door.

Ema had insisted on a family walk. “You can’t have a Toronto visit without stretching your legs,” she said with mock sternness, already wrapping a scarf around her neck.

Felix was spinning in excited circles by the door, leash in his mouth, tail a blur. Breyana and Alex were fighting over who got to clip it on, while Auston’s dad chuckled and held the door open.

You hovered, hesitant, still unsure of your place—but Ema caught your eye and smiled, slipping an arm around your shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Come,” she said. “He listens better if someone he likes is walking next to him.”

You weren’t sure if she meant Auston or Felix.

Probably both.

The group ambled down the quiet street, Felix trotting proudly beside you, ears perked like he was showing off. The girls chatted animatedly, asking about brunch places and comparing Toronto weather to Arizona’s. Auston walked just behind you, his hand brushing yours now and then, but not quite reaching for it. Still, his nearness was like a low hum—steady, anchoring.

Every now and then, Auston would call out to the dog in a voice that made your heart do something inconvenient.

“Let’s go, Snuffleupagus.”

Or: “Keep up, Puppa.”

Or, your favourite so far: “No sniffing that, Snuffus.”

You bit back a smile the first time, but by the third, a soft laugh escaped you.

Auston glanced over. “What?”

“Nothing,” you said, grinning. “It’s just—so adorable. You really love him, huh.”

His reply was quiet, almost like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud. “And he seems to really like you.”

Felix, trotting faithfully at your side, gave a happy little huff as if in agreement.

You reached down to give him a quick scratch behind the ear, warmth blooming in your chest that had very little to do with the November sun.

Then at some point, the conversation turned to childhood.

“Oh, remember when you broke the screen door?” Alexandria nudged Auston with her elbow.

He groaned. “That was ten years ago.”

“Ten years ago, and still the loudest crash I’ve ever heard,” Breyana added. “He tried to ‘slide’ through it. Like a ninja. Ended up face-planting into the mesh.”

You laughed, startled by the image. “Were you okay?”

“I was fine. Just bruised my pride.”

“He screamed like he’d been shot,” Alexandria said.

“Okay,” Auston muttered. “Time to walk faster.”

“Oh!” Ema chimed in; her voice full of light. “Or the Halloween when he insisted on being a pirate but forgot to bring the candy bag. He tried to use his hat instead and ended up losing half his loot.”

“You guys are ruthless,” Auston grumbled, but his eyes were warm, flicking toward you like he liked the way you were laughing. Like maybe this was the version of him he wanted you to know.

You pressed closer to him, brushing your knuckles against his hand, and felt him squeeze back—just once.

And by the time you returned, the condo smelled like home in a way.

Warm, layered spices met you at the door—cumin, garlic, a little bit of chilli. Felix collapsed on the rug with a dramatic sigh, and the girls immediately kicked off their boots, bickering over who got to shower first.

Quickly, Ema swept into the kitchen again like a general with a wooden spoon. “You,” she said, pointing at Auston. “Set the table. You—” she turned to you with a smile, “—can help me with the tortillas.”

You blinked. “Me?”

She nodded. “You look like you can handle a skillet.”

And somehow, you did.

The kitchen was warm, a little crowded, but not in a bad way. You rolled dough beside her, laughing when it stuck to your palms, her hands guiding yours with practiced ease.

“Your turn,” she said, holding out the pan. You flipped a tortilla—badly—but she still whooped with encouragement.

“She’s got it!” she declared.

“Barely,” Auston called from the dining room, peeking around the doorway.

You flicked a towel at him, cheeks warm.

The conversations flowed as easily as the laughter. Ema talked about Mexico, about their old house and summers on the lake. Auston’s dad chimed in with dry humour, nodding along as the girls teased him for always getting lost on road trips.

You told them a little about your family—where you grew up, what your mother was like. You kept it light and easy. And surprisingly enough, it didn’t feel like a performance.

It felt like belonging.

And somewhere in the middle of plating food and slicing limes, you caught Auston watching you from the far end of the room.

He was leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest, his head tilted slightly like he didn’t want to blink.

“What?” you mouthed, smiling.

He shook his head—barely—and smiled back. But there was something in his expression. Something soft. Almost reverent.

Like watching you laugh with his mother, trade teasing glances with his sisters, flip tortillas and hum along to the Spanish radio station playing low in the background—like all of it had settled somewhere in his chest and made a home.

He didn’t say anything. But he didn’t have to.

Because at that moment, something stirred behind his eyes.

Something real.

Something dangerous.

Something maybe… like love.

_

The sun had started its slow descent beyond the windows, casting everything in a warm, syrupy glow. Dinner was done, the table still scattered with half-empty glasses and crumpled napkins, conversation softening into that comfortable after-meal hum. Auston sat beside you, his thigh resting warm against yours beneath the table, his arm stretched along the back of your chair.

Ema stood near the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dishtowel as she surveyed her gathered family with quiet satisfaction. The hum of laughter still buzzed faintly from the living room, where Auston’s sisters were teasing Felix with a rope toy he’d proudly refused to relinquish.

Then she turned back to the two of you and smiled.

“I don’t mean to embarrass you,” she said, her voice warm and easy, “but it’s just… it’s really nice to see you like this, Auston. You’re glowing.”

Your breath hitched—not enough to be obvious, but enough for you to notice. You looked up slowly, unsure of where she was going.

But then Ema continued, undeterred. “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen you this happy. In love like this.”

The word landed softly, but it echoed sharp. You froze for half a second. Just half.

And then you smiled. Not too big, not too small. Just enough to pass. 

Auston just simply nodded, tilted his head slightly toward you, and murmured, “She makes it easy.”

Ema beamed, pleased with herself, and turned back to the dishes.

You didn’t say anything. But you felt everything.

Auston hadn’t missed that split second—that subtle freeze in your body, the millimetre of hesitation in your smile before it settled. He watched the way you slipped into the moment like second nature. No falter in your voice. No blush of panic.

You played the part perfectly. But the truth was… it wasn’t just a part anymore.

He watched you at the table, your hands curled loosely in your lap, your expression calm, your eyes soft. You looked like you belonged here. And the strange thing—what twisted low in his chest—was how natural it all felt. How natural you felt.

He couldn’t remember when it had shifted. When the pretending stopped being pretend. When he stopped bracing for the end of whatever this was and started imagining you in rooms like this. At family dinners. Laughing with his sisters. Stirring soup in his mother’s kitchen like you’d done it a hundred times before.

You weren’t his. But you were here.

And that, somehow, felt like everything.

You then turned to glance at him, catching his stare. Your smile wavered, almost sheepish. “What?” you whispered, low enough for only him to hear.

Auston simply leaned closer, just enough for his shoulder to brush yours.

“Nothing,” he murmured, a faint curve to his lips. “Just thinking how good you are at lying.”

You laughed once under your breath, quiet and wistful. “You too.”

But as you turned back toward the rest of the room—toward his mother and the warmth of her gaze—Auston watched you with something caught in his throat.

And for the first time in a long time, he wasn’t sure what parts of this story were still scripted.

Or if they ever had been.

A bit more time went by as the evening was slowly unwinding and you excused yourself quietly, brushing a hand against Auston’s thigh as you slipped out of the dining room. “Bathroom,” you whispered, offering him a soft smile before disappearing down the hallway.

Ema waited until your footsteps faded, before she glanced across the table at her son, arching an eyebrow like she had a secret she wasn’t sure she should share.

“She’s lovely,” she said simply, her voice low but firm.

Alexandria nodded from the other end of the table, already nibbling on a second helping of flan. “She’s smart, too. And funny.”

Breyana chimed in with a smirk. “And she didn’t flinch when Felix drooled on her jeans. That’s when I knew she was solid.”

They all laughed, and Auston did too—but it came out more like an exhale. He leaned back in his chair, rubbing a hand over his jaw, eyes cast toward the empty hallway where you’d gone.

“I’m serious,” Ema continued. “You look happy, mijo. Really happy. Like it’s different with her.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just stared at the rim of his water glass, one finger circling it slowly like he was trying to think through a fog.

Because he did feel happy. Happier than he’d expected. Happier than he probably had any right to.

But he also felt something else creeping up his spine.

Guilt.

Because his family didn’t know the truth. Not really. 

They didn’t know that this had started as a deal, a performance, a calculated arrangement made in dim lighting and shared headlines. They didn’t know it wasn’t supposed to last.

And yet, sitting here now, watching the way his mother’s eyes had softened when she spoke about you, the way his sisters teased like you were already one of them—he didn’t want to break that illusion.

Didn’t want to end it.

Didn’t want to watch that light in their faces dim if they found out it wasn’t real.

Except…

It didn’t feel unreal anymore.

It felt like you, laughing in his kitchen. Like you reaching for his hand during a walk. Like your clothes in his drawer and your head on his chest and your scent on his pillow.

Maybe it had started as pretend. But somehow, somewhere along the way… He’d stopped acting.

_

The house quieted slowly.

After hours of chatter, plates scraped clean, wine glasses clinking and Felix’s tail thumping at every dropped morsel, the stillness came like a blanket draped gently over everything. Auston’s sisters had taken over the guest room with their chargers and shared skincare routines, while his dad flipped through channels in the living room, volume low. Ema had insisted on doing the dishes—“You’re still my children,” she’d scolded kindly—before retreating to the upstairs bedroom with a yawn and a reminder to “get some sleep, you two.”

Now it was just the two of you again.

Back in his bedroom, you peeled off your sweater with a quiet breath. Auston toed off his socks and stretched, the hem of his shirt rising to reveal the soft line of his stomach. His eyes found yours across the room.

There was no rush. No need for it.

The door clicked softly closed, and you both moved at the same time.

He met you halfway, arms sliding around your waist as your fingers curled into the collar of his tee. The kiss was light at first—almost cautious. But your bodies had missed each other, even in a house full of love and laughter, and the moment your mouths met again, it was like gravity pulling you back into orbit.

He kissed you like it was habit. Like this, right here, was the only place that made sense.

His hands ran over your lower back, fingers skating over the curve of your spine. Yours dipped into the waistband of his sweats, pulling him flush to you, warm and firm and already half hard.

“Finish what we started?” he asked, his voice low, lips brushing your jaw.

You answered by moving your arms behind your back and unclasping your bra.

There was no teasing this time. No games. Just quiet urgency.

You crawled onto the bed, settling into the familiar shape of the sheets, and he followed. Auston hovered above you, eyes drinking you in, his thumb brushing lightly over your cheekbone before he kissed you again—deeper now, slower.

Everything was slower.

His mouth moved down your neck, then lower still, every kiss deliberate. Reverent. Your breaths tangled. Your fingers dug into his hair as he took his time, like he wasn’t just touching you but learning you all over again.

And when he finally pressed inside you, it was with a sigh against your skin.

You gasped, arching just enough to meet his thrust, your legs curling around his hips. It wasn’t rough or fast. It was rhythm. Connection. A silent thank you for this moment, for this closeness, for this absurd, aching thing you’d built together.

His forehead dropped to yours. His hand slipped between your bodies, finding your clit with the kind of easy focus that made your whole body tremble.

You moaned, trying to hide it under a whisper. But you were unsuccessful, which had him grinning. 

“Gotta be quiet,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to your jaw.

“Then stop making me feel  this good,” you breathed, biting back another sound as his hips rolled deeper.

The moans that followed were barely a murmur, but it filled the space like a spark in the dark. You covered your mouth at one point when a particularly deep thrust made you whimper too loudly. He shushed you playfully, nipping at your collarbone, and you could barely breathe for the warmth that bloomed between your ribs.

It felt like falling. It felt like home.

And when you finally came, it was with your forehead pressed to his, his name on your lips, your bodies flush and trembling and perfectly, devastatingly tangled.

Auston then followed just moments later, burying his face in your neck as he let go with a soft groan, muffled by skin and the quiet thrill of being caught in something neither of you had the words for.

And afterwards, you simply lay together under the weight of warm sheets and lazy limbs. Auston’s hand traced idle circles along your hip. Felix huffed from the foot of the bed, curled into a donut like he’d been there the whole time.

Neither of you spoke for a while. There was no need.

Because in that sleepy hush—bodies sated, hearts uncertain but held—you didn’t need declarations.

You just needed this.

Him. And the way he looked at you like maybe, just maybe, this wasn’t pretending anymore.

_

“Dearest Toronto readers,

Oh, my. You didn’t actually think the Queen would fall, did you?

Because if you were paying attention, you’d know she never needed rescuing. She’s worn every scar like a jewel, every secret like armour. But tonight—tonight was different.

Tonight, she chose to be held.

No crowns were tilted, no declarations made. And yet something has undeniably shifted. The Ice King, once so careful to guard his throne, let someone beneath the frost. Let someone in. And we saw it—in the way he watched her laugh with his family, in the way his hands didn’t seek to claim, but to comfort. In the quiet, slow-burning kind of touch that makes kings into men.

So maybe this was never about strategy. Maybe it’s not about headlines or public appearances anymore. Maybe this isn’t a performance.

Maybe it’s surrender.

And darlings, surrender—when done right—is the most powerful move of all.

Until next time.

Yours always,

The Benchwarmer”

[sl-ut]

of fire and ice

guys don’t @ me ikkk this is similar to princess of the north but i wanted to write for cregan again and im literally obsessed with cregan x targ!reader so either suck it up and enjoy or keep scrolling plsss

pairing: cregan stark x fem!velaryon!poc!reader

description: sent to secure the loyalty of the north, the only daughter of queen rhaenyra is surprised to find such a warm welcome from the lord of winterfell. 

warnings: no smut but steamy in parts, swearing, alcohol consumption, treason lol, angst, familial conflict, off-screen character death, grieving, slight description (silver hair, purple eyes, darker complexion than her brothers (yes this reader is biracial what about it)), sort of canon divergent but i tried my best to make it clear what point in the dance we’re talking about at each point

words: 6.8K

date posted: 13/04/25

Cregan had awoken earlier than usual that morning, and he had noticed the shifting of the winds. He had not known it yet, but there was a dragon looming above the clouds, only a few hours south of Winterfell and going completely undetectable to the untrained eye. Something was amiss, that much he knew, but he was entirely unaware of what sort of chaos was about to be brought into his life. 

An ache of uncertainty settled in his bones when his guards stormed his halls, fear distinct in their eyes and nothing but the word dragon falling from their lips. The crowd that had formed to petition their lord had fled the hall in a hurry, each and every one of those northerners running in fear and excitement, for very few of them were old enough to recall the last time a dragon had flown so far north during the visit of King Jaehaerys and Good Queen Alysanne more than half a century ago. 

None even made way for their liege lord in their eagerness, forcing him to follow the crowd with his own anticipation and unease—the news of the king’s death had arrived only days before, along with the ascension of his eldest son Aegon to the throne. He was not naive enough to believe that this transition would pass without backlash or conflict; Rhaenyra had been named Princess of Dragonstone three years before Cregan had even been born, and his father had willingly bent the knee to her and had hoped for House Stark to one day stand among her most trusted allies. While Cregan had no intentions of breaking his father’s oath, which had become his own, with the news of Aegon’s coronation he had hoped to receive some sort of correspondence from the princess to alert him of how to proceed in such circumstances, though he certainly had not expected a dragonrider to carry this message.

He could not be certain that the dragon had even been sent by Rhaenyra. While her own household had in fact claimed ownership over five dragons of their own, not including those who were riderless, but all four of King Viserys’ children with Alicent Hightower had dragons of their own as well. Perhaps this was not a message from Rhaenyra, but instead one of Aegon’s dragons sent to have him bend the knee.

The late-summer sun was high in the sky when he set foot into the courtyard, his eyes burning from the light as he pointed his gaze to the heavens and scanned the grey-blue clouds for a glimpse of the dragon in question. The crowd was silent, breaths held in suspense as they found no sign of a dragon for several moments before a sharp cry pierced the air and the large shadow of a winged creature appeared before the sun. 

The beast itself brought only awe to the crowd of northerners below as it drew closer, circling the castle time and time again and growing nearer with every flap of its wings. The dragon was glimmering white in colour, her scales glittering in the sunlight as her mighty talons settled into the ground, sending shocks through the earth as she lowered her gaze to the open gates of Winterfell. 

Cregan’s horse was ready before he could command, guards parting the crowd as their liege lord rode out to meet the mighty she-dragon where she sat, waiting His heart thumped in his chest as he grew nearer, the dragon’s eyes of emerald green narrowing on the approaching figure and her chest rumbling with a protective growl. At the very least, he was thankful that it had not been the fearsome Vhagar that had come to them, for he’d heard nothing about her rider save for his sheer ferocity and ill-temper and with a dragon of that size Prince Aemond could decimate the entirety of the north in a matter of minutes if he wished. From the size of this dragon, damage could be done, yes, but surely one of greater size would have been sent if true harm was to be intended. 

His horse came to a halt a short distance away, clearly nervous in the face of such a beast, and he was not yet close enough to discern who this rider was; Neither Rhaenyra nor Aegon would risk making the flight themselves, and the beast certainly did not fit the description of any of the ferocious war-mongers he’d heard of such as Vhagar, Meleys, or Caraxes, and the mounts of Princess Helaena and Prince Daeron were both famously regarded for their glittering blue hides. He dismounted his horse, taking long strides to close the distance between himself and the dragon.

“Lord Stark,” the rider called out, melodious and powerful as it cut through the wind. The dragon lowered its head, finally giving him a clear view of her rider in all of her glory, “I bring a message from my mother, Queen Rhaenyra of House Targaryen.”

The princess was a renowned beauty, the image of her Valyrian heritage. The realm had taken to the rumours of Rhaenyra’s infidelity with ease, each of her boys born during her marriage with Ser Laenor tainted with clear evidence of their heritage, while her only daughter bore the very same traits that Queen Rhaenyra had long been praised for, save for her complexion, which was several shades darker than any of her siblings. No one in the realm questioned her heritage for her parentage was just as clear as it was for her brothers. 

“Princess,” he lowered himself in a curt bow, his eyes drawn to her features despite being face-to-face with her dragon, “I was expecting a messenger from Her Grace. Winterfell welcomes you and honours its oath.”

“Thank you, Lord Stark. The Queen will remember your loyalty to her.”

The princess dismounted her dragon with ease, sliding down the smooth flesh of her wings until her feet met with the hard earth, quickly beginning to freeze solid with the coming of winter. As she drew nearer, Cregan was able to take in the complexity of her features, the roundness of her premature features now blooming into the sharpness of womanhood, her violet eyes still holding the gentle innocence of a maiden princess while holding the fury and power of a dragonrider. Her silver curls were tucked away into an intricate braid, though some pieces around her face had fallen loose due to the strong northern winds that her dragon had carried her through. She reached into one of the bell-shaped sleeves of her overcoat, revealing a small roll of parchment closed tightly with a black seal stamped with the three headed dragon of House Targaryen and extending it to him.

He lingered for a moment as their gloved fingertips met, eyes finding hers once more and finding a flicker of surprise over her stoic features as she finally took in his own features at such a close proximity. 

He cracked the seal and unrolled the message, eyes tracing over the regal handwriting, a message written in the queen’s own hand. He read over every word with care, the weight of the queen’s request settling over him–the realm was at war, or at least, it was about to be, and his loyalty was not enough. Most of the realm would rather see Aegon on the throne, shirking their oaths and bending the knee to the Greens, leaving Rhaenyra with remotely no forces behind her save for the Velaryon fleet, which was no help when it came to battle, as the Greens had no interest in meeting them in naval battles, and her dragons, none of which would be any match against Vhagar and her rider. Rhaenyra needed more than his honour now, she needed soldiers, and many more than he was able to offer. 

He grunted, nodding as he rolled the parchment up once again and slid it into the breast pocket of his overcoat, “It would seem there is much to discuss, princess. Perhaps we may do so over supper, if you wish to join me. I will have a room prepared for you so you may bathe and rest. I imagine you need it after a long journey, and I’ll arrange something for your dragon to eat.”

The princess nodded, the tension in her shoulders relaxing slightly at the offer as she glanced back at her dragon, “Vesia prefers cattle, but anything will do. She is not likely to stay put for long, she has never experienced the cold and will seek out somewhere warm to rest, so I apologize for any ruckus she may create among your people.” 

“There is a hot spring not far from the castle, the earth around it runs warm and the air is humid, and I’m certain we can spare some cattle during your stay,” Cregan nodded, chuckling to himself, “And you must forgive my people for any unwanted attention you and her may receive. It’s been nearly seventy years since a dragon has flown this far north.”

She smirked, reaching back to lay her palm flat to Vesia’s snout, “It might do her some good to attract some attention. She is still young, and often gets overlooked in favour of older and larger dragons, save for myself. Perhaps now she will be honoured for what she is…”

“Beautiful,” he finished for her, though his tone carried a cadence that might have been taken for affection, had the princess met his gaze. 

“Precisely,” she nodded, “I know she will prove to be fearsome in battle when the time comes.”

“Aye,” Cregan agreed, “as would you, princess. Though I hope it does not come to that.”

“As do I, but my uncle has usurped my mother’s throne, and his brother rides the largest dragon in the world. We will need every dragonrider we can find if we hope to win this war.”

This war would end in fire and blood, bringing about chaos like no other war that Westeros had ever seen. Dragons had fought dragons in the past, yes, but never so many all at once. The princess was more than aware of her odds of surviving the war, but she was a dragonrider through and through, just as the generations that came before her had been, and she would not shirk from her duty when the time for battle came. This was a trait that Cregan quickly came to admire in the princess over that very first evening when she joined him for supper, and the three others that followed. Cregan’s closest friends and advisors, especially his half-sister Sara, had taken note of the fact that their liege lord had grown increasingly affectionate over the Targaryen princess, even through his statue-eque facade. He seemed to take great consideration of her opinion, entertaining her thoughts for various issues brought to him during his public audiences as if she were his lady. He’d yet to make a decision over her mother’s request for soldiers, and many even speculated that he was postponing for as long as he could in order to have more time in the princess’s presence. 

The princess had been brought two gowns of the warmest wool the North had to offer. She had brought her own, of course, but had severely underestimated her tolerance for the bitter cold that inhabited Winterfell, regardless of the fact that it was still summer. The cold was more of an ache, a chill that settled into her bones like a disease, only thwarted by hot baths, layers of fur, a raging fire, and the company of the Lord of Winterfell. She, too, had been quite taken with him, her skin burning under his gentle and honourable touches, often lingering but never enough to be taken as anything more than respectable between a lord and a visiting princess (though, every servant and soldier in Winterfell were eagerly indulging in any chance to gossip about the budding courtship between Lord Cregan and the dragon riding princess). 

The sun had fallen onto the horizon, only a small sliver maintaining the faintest of daylight over the whole of the North when Cregan received the raven. He’d sat with the message enclosed in his fist for more than an hour, staring into the flames in the hearth as he mulled over the message that had been given to him to pass on. He had never met Prince Lucerys, and had hardly heard his name more than a handful of times, and yet his heart felt heavy with the weight of the news of his death–even more so when he pictured the princess’s face when he was forced to break the news to her. 

She’d been very vocal about how close she had been with her brothers, but especially Lucerys. She was the second-born child of Rhaenyra Targaryen, born less than a year after her elder brother Jacaerys, who had been her best friend throughout their entire childhood. However, once they were old enough to understand the rumours that had been spread about her brothers’ legitimacy, she had noticed a shift in her relationship with the eldest of her brothers; where there had once been a childish connection between them based entirely out of sibling love and childish ignorance had somehow become a loathing, jealousy sparked through Jace’s feelings on the matter. He was second in line for the throne, how could anyone be so dismissive of him over his younger sister–there came a point when no one bothered to pretend the moment that his back was turned, aside from his mother and grandfather. Jace never made it out to be her fault, but he also couldn’t find it within himself to separate his anger at these people and at his mother for causing this, and the jealousy that he felt for his sister; he was the heir to the throne, he would someday be king and was among the most privileged young men in the Seven Kingdoms, and yet his younger sister was the one who had everything that he had ever wanted. Following this shift in their relationship, the princess turned her attention to her younger brother Lucerys, who had always been eager to impress his sister and was often noted to have been rather protective over her, despite the fact that he was younger and smaller than she was.

The path to her chambers felt longer than ever, and Cregan was glad that he at least had the cover of night to avoid any diversions from bringing her the news–and no one would catch him making the trek to the princess’s room, where they would be alone together. 

When he reached her chambers, he raised his fist, hesitating for a moment as he prepared himself to face the princess, who he already found himself struggling to find words around, only to have to deliver the gravest of news. Just as his fist met the wood-panelled door, a soft voice called his name from down the dark corridor, drawing his attention to the figure that approached.

“Princess,” he sighed, “what are you doing out of bed so late?”

A small smirk appeared on the princess’s lips, “I’m more curious as to why you’ve found yourself coming to my chambers so late, my lord.”

His eyes ran over her figure, only a simple fur-lined robe layered over her thin nightgown, silver curls loose around her face in places where they had fallen out of her braid, which was much simpler than the usual Valyrian style that he had previously seen her wear. 

“I need to speak with you, princess,” he spoke, hoping to not display too much concern in his tone, “there’s been a raven from the queen.”

Her brow furrowed, though it seemed she had yet to catch onto the danger in the cadence of his voice, “What is it? Is she demanding I return to Dragonstone to be locked away again? Come, Lord Stark, tell me of my mother’s wrath and desire to control my every move.”

He followed her into the room, pressing the door closed behind him as she crossed the room, turning to offer him a cup of wine, which he denied with a wave of his hand. 

“So tell me, what command has my mother sent to me now? Is she angry with me for taking so long?”

“Princess,” he said, “this news is…of grave matters.”

She paused, finally meeting his gaze in the fire-lit room, “What’s happened. You’re making me nervous, Lord Cregan.”

He did not recall when the words slipped past his lips or the manner in which he delivered them. In fact, he truly would not have been certain that he’d even said them if it hadn’t been for the cracking of the princess’s facade, the slow expression of disbelief dawning on her face before she stumbled forward, collapsing to the floor just before she could reach the large bed in the middle of the room. 

The first whimper that sounded from her throat was pitiful, but the second escaped as a quiet scream. Cregan could do nothing but watch as her body, usually appearing so confident and regal, quivered and shook as she now appeared only vulnerable and afraid, betraying just how young she truly was, no matter how much she tried to appear older. War was a gruesome thing, something that no one should be forced to know, let alone anyone so young. 

Her body wracked with sobs, fingers curling into the cold stone floor beneath her in a weak attempt to regain her strength, to ground herself, to bring herself out of this grief. Cregan stepped forward, one of his broad palms settling onto her shoulder in an awkward attempt to bring her comfort. Honour and propriety bound him to keeping his distance, despite the fact that there was nothing he wanted more than to take her into his arms and hold her until her grief passed. 

She flinched under his touch, but did not shrink away. She pushed herself onto her knees, straightening her spine as she wiped at her cheeks to clean them of her tears.

“Lord Stark,” she croaked, “Forgive me, I seemed to have forgotten myself. Thank you for bringing me this news.”

“There is nothing to forgive, princess,” he shook his head, reaching out to wipe a stray tear from her cheek. “This is betrayal, treachery. A throne is nothing in comparison to this loss.”

Her wide, teary eyes watched him carefully, scanning over his face as a shuddered breath fell from her lips, parted and swollen from crying. The roaring flames in the fireplace sent a warm glow across her skin, akin to only the finest of melted bronze. Her fingers trailed up to graze over the back of his hand and it settled to cup her cheek. Then, she kissed him.

Her lips had disappeared as soon as they were there, and Cregan’s burned with the slightest taste of her kiss. He paused, eyes closed as he tried to savour the feeling of her lips in case he were to never feel them again, though that did not seem to be the case.

She kissed him again, cautiously scooching closer as if she were waiting for him to stop her, though she found little resistance from him as she raised her own hand and cupped the back of his neck. He finally began to reciprocate, lips moulding with hers effortlessly as his spare hand pressed against her lower back. He finally broke away when he felt her robe fall from her shoulders as she reached up to unlace the front of her nightgown.

He caught her hands before she could reveal herself to him any further, pulling away from her kiss slowly.

“Princess–”

“I want you, Cregan,” she whispered, a small whine leaving her throat as he dodged her attempt to kiss him again.

“I won’t dishonour you, princess,” he denied, “I am not your husband.”

“Then make me your wife,” she pleaded, “I cannot return there knowing that he won’t ever be waiting for me. I care for you, Cregan, and you offer my mother the strongest alliance possible.”

He stared down at her, uncertainty clear in his stare, “This is grief speaking, I cannot hold you to anything–”

“It is not,” she spoke sternly, “do not deny me this. I know you have longed for me just as I have for you.”

He gulped, “I do care for you, princess–”

“Then arrange it,” she pleaded, “a small ceremony, in accordance with your gods. No feasts, no celebrations, just you and I.”

Cregan sighed, his mind whirling, begging him to deny her of this request. This was treason, to marry the queen’s daughter without her permission, and he would not even have time to run things by his advisors for more than a moment before the deed was done. His heart, however, aching as he stared upon her grief-stricken features, still appearing as the most beautiful woman to have ever lived, urged him to take her into his arms and make her his wife. Cregan Stark had always been regarded as one of the wisest men in the Seven Kingdoms, despite his youth, burdened by his inheritance and the weight of his duties. 

But for once in his life, Cregan Stark listened to his heart, and by the end of the very next day, he had taken the princess to wife beneath the ancient heart tree in the godswood.

His wife mourned for some time, but Cregan was thankful that he could now offer her the comfort she desired without the shame of dishonouring her. In the weeks to come, he was by her side whenever he could, tending to her needs while also helping her come to familiarize her with her duties as the new Lady Stark. 

Then, of course, came the issue of alerting her mother of their union. Cregan had hoped to have been the one to write to the queen, firstly to pledge his men to her cause, and then to admit his wrongdoing of marrying her daughter without permission, but his wife demanded that she would be the one to do it. He wasn’t sure if she was hoping to soften the blow or if her adamancy was out of her innate desire to take her duties as seriously as possible. For that, he could not begrudge her, for he had the very same shackle to his duties. Though, he’s unsure if he was more or less glad to have been denied this task once he was able to read the queen’s response.

Cregan was certain that he was able to feel her rage through the parchment, writing appearing messy and smudged in places, cursing her daughter for her actions and reminding her of what crimes they had committed. Untrustworthy, unreliable, undutiful, the queen had called her, all of which he knew to be a complete lie.

“She has always been more stern with me than with my brothers,” his wife told him as he read over the letter, “I’m not sure if it is moreso caused by our similarities or–” She caught herself before she spoke the truth of her brother’s parentage into the world, but she knows that he understands fully, “I do not hold it against them. They are my brothers, but sometimes I wonder if my mother does not worry for me as she would for them.”

Cregan listened to her as she paced back and forth in front of him, eyes lingering on the final sentence of the letter, Your Queen commands you to return to Dragonstone at once.

“Will you go?” He asked, though he already knew the answer. He had yet to meet someone so bound by duty as himself, and yet he could already see that his wife was preparing herself to return to her ancestral home upon the command. She may have taken on the role of Lady Stark, but she was still a princess of the realm first and foremost.

“Not for long,” she crouched to kneel on the fur rug before the tufted chair he had been seated in. Her nimble fingers traced over the curve of his knee through his breeches, eyes locking on his own over the piece of parchment, “forgive me, husband. I do not wish to shirk my duties to you and to the North, but she will never relent until I return.”

“There is nothing to forgive, my love,” his thumb smoothed over her cheek affectionately, “though I cannot say I am happy about it.”

“I will be on dragonback,” she murmured, nuzzling into his palm, “so long as my mother does not lock me away for disobeying her, I could only be a few days.”

“She wouldn’t dare, you’re the Lady of Winterfell now,” he dropped the parchment on the small table next to him, reaching down to pull his wife to her feet and then into his lap, “besides, I would rather not have to declare war on the queen for keeping my wife from me.”

“War,” she snorted, “I am hardly a suitable prize for such drastic measures.”

“I disagree,” he hummed, hands smoothing over her curves through her wool gown, “I would fight a thousand men to have you back in my arms.”

“Unfortunately for you,” she mused, bumping his nose with her own, “it’s not a man you’d be facing. My mother has the fury and strength of a thousand warlords when she needs it.”

“I do not doubt it. You are your mother’s daughter, after all,” Cregan laughed, pressing a quick kiss to her lips, “just promise that you will return to me.”

Her eyes squinted at him curiously, admiring the subtle crack in his usually firm demeanor that she only ever saw when they were alone together, “Nothing could keep me from you, my love. Nothing.”

It seemed that there was one thing truly capable of keeping the princess from her newly-wedded husband—war. 

When she had arrived back on Dragonstone, it seemed that all Seven Hells had broken loose. She had little time to spend with her brothers, mourning the loss of Lucerys together, before she’d been pulled aside by her mother, who had used more than a few colourful words to express her rage towards her daughter for her unlawful actions.

“I have done you a favour so great it could never be repaid, mother. My husband loves me, and I, him. If you wish to keep us apart, you’ll have to have me executed for my crime.”

Rhaenyra could not stay too angry for too long, for every time she looked at her daughter, she saw the very image of herself only twenty-odd years earlier. She suddenly understood her father’s frustrations with her, but at the very least her own daughter had not ventured to brothels and alehouses to toss away her maidenhead, she’d done it out of love and duty. Permission or not, Rhaenyra now had the unwavering loyalty of the largest of the Seven Kingdoms, and she had nobody to thank but her daughter. 

The princess had been shocked to learn what had happened in her absence. She fully understood that Lucerys would not be the last to lose his life in this war, but the news of Jaehaerys’s murder and mutilation was devastating to her. She’d never met the boy, even the last time that they had been in King’s Landing before her grandsire had passed, but she and Helaena had been girls together. Feuds and hatred had never tainted their relationship with one another, only distance and time. Since then, Daemon had fled to Harrenhal, where he refused to answer any of Rhaenyra’s ravens, meanwhile many had flocked to support Aegon’s claim after the brutal murder of his son was claimed to have been an attack orchestrated by his elder sister. There was no denying the devastation that would be caused by the war; Rhaenys and Meleys had met Sunfyre and Vhagar in battle, bringing destruction to Rook’s Rest and resulting in the death of Meleys and her rider, as well as the mutilation of both Aegon and Sunfyre. Aemond was now responsible for the death of two members of the Blacks and their dragons, and rumours have circulated about his involvement in what had happened to Sunfyre as well. Additionally, he’d done nothing but rally the smallfolk in favour of Rhaenyra through his cruelty once he had taken over as Prince Regent, and Vhagar had been spotted patrolling the Black Water Bay on multiple occasions, which only meant one thing for the princess; it was no longer safe to travel such a distance over enemy territory by dragonback, nor could she return to Winterfell by procession, so she could not tell how long it would be before she was back in her husband’s arms. 

They exchanged letters as often as they could, each expressing their desire to be with one another once again. They had not known each other for very long, but the princess had never felt such a connection with anyone else–save for her dragon, of course. She felt a mixture of worry and excitement when she received a raven from her husband claiming that he and his men were prepared to leave Winterfell and begin the long march south, but it would still be a month at least before his camp would be close enough for her to fly out to meet him, so she would need to put up with staying in Dragonstone under her mother’s supervision.

The tides seemed to be turning as the queen came across three new dragonriders, all of whom were of Targaryen blood but were all so poor that there were no annals to say exactly how long ago or who beyond stories told to them by their mothers. Jacaerys was especially bothered by this, and turned even more aggressive towards his younger sister; the thin veil that he felt separated himself from the truth behind his legitimacy was the fact that he was able to claim and ride a dragon, and now that veil had been stripped away and he was forced to face the bitter truth. The princess did her best to ignore his comments or blatant ignorance of her opinions, keeping thoughts of her husband at the forefront and counting down the days until she could see him once again. 

The sun had fallen low on the horizon when the raven came, and the princess had clambered onto the back of her dragon less than an hour later. Cregan Stark had arrived at Harrenhal, his men setting up camp and conjoining with the men of the Riverlands that had gathered under Daemon’s authority and bent the knee to Rhaenyra. The princess could not waste any more time, urging Vesia to fly as fast as possible as she took to the sky, glad for the she-dragon’s ability to camouflage into the clouds of the late evening for extra protection, allowing her to take the most direct path to Harrenhal. 

Vesia let out a roar as Harrenhal came into view, responding to the curious and cautionary calls of Caraxes and Syrax as she circled around the castle, dropping closer and closer to the ground with every swoop of her wings. The princess’s feet hit the rubble-covered earth just outside of the castle, patting Vesia on the snout as the small white dragon scurried over to reunite with Syrax, who had birthed the clutch of eggs she’d hatched from; the pair had always been very close with one another, mother and daughter–a complete opposite of the relationship between their riders.

She wasted little time scaling down the uneven stone steps until she reached the site of encampment. She paid little mind to the men who stopped in surprise as she brushed passed, purple hues scanning each shield and banner that she passed in search of the direwolf sigil she so longed to see. Her husband had, of course, found himself set up furthest from the castle, having been the most recent to have arrived. 

Once she finally passed through the threshold of Stark banners, she found the men falling into deeper bows than the others, all greeting her with her proper title, as their lady, for the others had only known her to be the daughter of the queen. 

She stopped before a small group of greybeards sitting around a small fire, “Lord Stark, can you tell me where he is?”

They all seemed taken aback for a moment, before one of them rose to his feet and eagerly led his lady through the encampment to one of the largest tents in the centre of the Stark army. She thanked the man earnestly, wasting no time in ignoring the guards and pushing through the white flaps of the tent and finding herself in the midst of a council meeting, where Lord Cregan Stark appeared in among a group of men stood over a map of the Seven Kingdoms on one side of the table, the queen and her husband on the other. 

Rhaenyra raised a brow at the sudden appearance of her daughter. She had not bothered to write in advance, nor had she made any attempt to alert the queen of her arrival in favour of seeking out her husband. She should have known better than to expect her mother to avoid speaking with Lord Stark as soon as she could, though she was surprised to have found him wholly intact. 

“Daughter,” the queen greeted, concern weighing in her tone, “is something wrong?”

The princess finally tore her eyes away from her husband, who seemed to be at a loss for words at the sight of his wife after months apart, “There is. My husband arrived here and nobody thought to tell for a week.”

Rhaenyra sighed at her daughter’s sternness while Daemon rolled his eyes. He had always admired his stepdaughter’s fiery attitude, much like her mother’s and his own, but she was still a young woman who had a tendency to use it when it least benefited him. 

“Forgive us, but you may have forgotten that there is a war to be fought,” Daemon drawled, “and you will remember yourself when you speak to the queen, especially since you and your husband wed without her permission and are therefore guilty of treason.”

“Leave us,” Rhaenyra scoffed, ignoring her husband’s own attitude as she waited for the men to exit the tent, “A raven was sent. Late, I admit, but Daemon is right. We cannot afford to waste a moment.”

“And yet you keep your council in the dark,” the princess said, bitterly, “forgive me for thinking that perhaps this was an act of punishment. I have disobeyed you once in my life, but instead of upset and chaos, I have brought you the loyalty of the North and two thousand fighting men.”

“And in doing so you have overlooks centuries of tradition, denied us of our rights and authority–”

 “Us?” The princess interrupted her stepfather, “you have no authority over me, Daemon. You are not the king, and you are not my father. My mother can punish me however she may wish, but I am a married woman now and you have no authority over me.”

Daemon scowled at the girl, but she did not miss the flash of amusement across her mother’s face and the tug at the corner of her husband’s lips. He pushed himself off of the table that he’d been leaning against and strutted off, narrowly missing her shoulder with his own. The princess turned her attention back to her mother, who flickered her own violet gaze between her daughter and the man she’d taken to husband. Rhaenyra wanted to be angry, more than anything, but she could not fault her daughter for doing the same thing that she had only years earlier when she had wed Daemon, especially considering that she had brought much more to the table with her marriage to Cregan Stark than she would have with anyone else who might have asked for her hand. 

“You have done well, my sweet,” The queen stepped forward, taking her daughter’s hand in her own while cupping her cheek with the other, then glancing over her shoulder at the Northerner, “I expect you will adequately care for my daughter, Lord Stark.”

“I will, Your Grace.” The man smiled softly, “I would hope that you might come to Winterfell once this fighting is through. I have no desire to keep your daughter from you.”

Rhaenyra smiled softly, turning back to her daughter to press a gentle kiss to her forehead before she brushed past her, exiting the tent and leaving her daughter to stand face-to-face with her husband for the first time in months. 

“Husband,” she began, feeling somewhat awkward at what to say to him; they truly did not know each other for that long, and the average betrothal typically lasted several weeks rather than a few hours. “How have yo–oh!”

Cregan rushed at her the moment that her mother was out of ear shot, sweeping him into his arms and holding her snugly to his chest. She nuzzled into his neck, finding nothing but comfort and relief at the warmth of his chest through his many layers of wool and leather and fur. 

“I’ve missed you,” she murmured into his neck, the hair that had grown across his cheeks and jaw tickling her own skin as she trailed kisses across his chin until she reached his lips. He kissed her back eagerly, large hands rising to cup her jaw and hold her in place as she melted impossibly closer to him.

“I could not survive another moment without you,” he whispered back, pressing his forehead to her own, “I am sorry I did not send for you sooner. The queen kept me busy with meetings this entire time.”

“Leave it to my mother,” the princess sneered, though she could not find it within herself, “do not worry yourself with anything my mother or her husband may have said. Their opinions are of no consequence any further.”

“I have no intention of changing my mind now. I see no other choice but to endure her wrath until we gift to her grandchildren to fawn over.”

She hummed, “I think there is some business to attend to if we are to ever give her any.”

“I agree,” he smirked, “starting with a bath–you stink of dragon.”

She drove her fist into his chest roughly, glaring up at him as his fingers began to untie her cloak from around her neck, slowly backing her through the white curtain that lead to a small and practical bedroom set up, though certainly more extravagant than those afforded to the greybeards fighting for him. He threw her onto the makeshift goosefeather bed, not wasting a moment as he worked her out of her riding gear, pausing to admire her bare figure as she sunk into the warm furs. 

“You are the most divine creature to walk this earth,” he grumbled, his thick fingers curling around her thighs and pressed them back until she was completely exposed to him. She trembled in anticipation, watching him impatiently while his own heated gaze was directed solely at her core, glistening in the flickering candlelight, “I will never be away from you for so long again, I swear it.”

She shuddered as his fingers teased through her folds, grinning to himself at how easily she fell open to him, any thoughts in her head slurring together as she easily succumbed to his touch, soft sighs and wanton moans filled the tent.

Perhaps he did not mind the smell of dragon as much as he had let on, or perhaps he was simply too desperate for his wife to wait while a bath was prepared for them to share, and none dared to reenter the tent that evening as none of them would even question what was taking place inside.

[slaytheusurper]

⭑ Patience is a Virtue ⭑ (Domina Mea, Chapter Four)

Masterlist

A/N: Smut finally! We all chant in unison

Pairing: Geta & Caracalla x F!Noble!Reader

Warnings: NSFW, +18 MDNI, Macrinus is a rat fr, tensions rise, both the Emperors patience snaps, teasing, dirty talk, caressing, masturbation (M), making out, oral (f receiving), nipple sucking/breast sucking kink, pure infiltered want, caracalla being upset and pouty :(

Summary: Tension rises as you carry the heavy burden, when you tell the Emperors, they reward you for your good behavior.

Word count: 2.7k

A tingly feeling had spread across your skin, face still painted with a reddish hue, all evidence of the wine you had consumed an meager hour ago. Your eyes felt glossy as you stared at the Praetorians marching over to you, Macrinus was still posted at your side. Nerves and impatience knotted in your stomach, the information you had retrieved tonight was sensitive and you wanted to inform the Emperors immediately.    

“My Lady, come with us, we have been searching for you.” A taller Praetorian said, before he was joined by six others, all were ordered to take you to the palace. The fresh cooler wind of the night cleared your head a bit, something you were quite grateful for. The wine had been so potent, and as it had been your first and only cup, it had a strong effect on you. Macrinus followed you as you were escorted by the guards to Palatine Hill, not speaking a word along the way.

The thought of what you were about to tell the Emperors made your skin cover in goosebumps, you had no idea how they would react to this information, this insurrection. But you knew you had no choice but to tell them, it was your goal after all. From the start Macrinus had been off putting, a little too kind and serving. Now you know why, it was all to gain their trust, to distract them with a new toy so he could manipulate them. You just hoped that Macrinus fell for your trap. 

Upon arrival at the hall near the throne room it was eerily silent, and for a moment you wondered if anyone was there. However when you turned the corner, you were met with those four pairs of familiar eyes. “Where have you been?!” Your father stressed while he walked towards you with long strides, arms open to hold you close. “I’m so sorry-” Your voice got muffled when your face met his shoulder. 

“It’s all right, I was so afraid, but you’re safe- you’re safe.” Acacius whispered, his strong arms almost squeezing the life out of you. “I forgive you- for everything, just please don’t ever just leave again.” He continued. “I promise, I won’t.” You vowed, tears stinging your eyes. Mind now clear, you realised how stupid it had been, to just leave like that. But mistakes were made and now all that could be done is to forgive. 

“She had sought me out, General. For advice, although, perhaps next time it would be better done accompanied- and during the day.” Macrinus spoke up, stepping closer to the Emperors before bowing. “Daughter.” Lucilla murmured before embracing you as well. When she let you go, it was then you noticed the state of the Emperors. 

Geta’s hair was messier, his robes as well, his makeup smeared and distraught. Caracalla did not look much different, both looked like they had been fighting. “Your majesties, I beg for your forgiveness. For just... leaving and not saying a word. I hope you too, can forgive me.” You pleaded, curtseying lowly. “Everyone out.” Geta ordered, he didn’t yell this time. No one opposed him as they all quietly left the room, leaving you with the twins.

“Did- did you try to escape? Our company?” Caracalla croaked. Immediately you rose, “No! No, not at all!” Your voice rose as well while you hurried over to them. “No?” Geta asked, he was clearly not very convinced. “No please, it is nothing like that.” You begged, accidentally getting closer to them then would be considered appropriate. “Then what? Why would you just leave us like that? We had a thousand Praetorians searching for you, we thought that you had been taken- or worse, killed!” Caracalla yelled, his voice breaking more with each word. 

“I cannot speak about it here, I don’t think. It is very sensitive information, where would the most secure and private room here be? Caesar?” You spoke with widened eyes. Geta looked at you as if you had gone as mad as his brother, perhaps he had infected you. “What are you talking about? Have you lost your mind?” Geta scoffed. You could feel defeat wash over you but you knew that for the sake of the Emperors, you had to push them.

“Please, Caesar, trust me.” You had a feeling you would be begging even more tonight, but if that was what it took, you would. Caracalla nodded at his brother, Geta looked from his twin to you, and your pretty pleading eyes- and gave in. They did not tell you where you were going, but as you passed doors and wandered through hallways, you could guess. The decorations turned more and more expensive and grand with every step. 

The hallway that led to a dead end was riddled with guards. There was one large gold double door that was opened for the Emperors, you behind them. As you stepped inside, the large bed chamber must belong to Geta, it was neat, organised and a large four-posted bed stood in the middle of the room, all kinds of fabric adorned it. Geta gestured for you to join them in the sitting area of the room, they each sat in a large cushioned chair, while you settled on a settee that matched them. 

“Speak.” Geta said a little too cold and curt for your liking. “The reason why I left so abruptly was not only because of the fight I had with my father, but also because I had to follow my gut. So I followed Macrinus to his estate. And I know it was stupid and ill considered but I was right. From the moment I met him, something about him seemed so sinister and so off putting. So when I had successfully followed him inside, there was a man visiting him. They talked about some plan Macrinus has, a plan to one day rule Rome- he did not give specific details as he didn’t want to involve the man, but he has definitely been plotting.” You rambled as the memories came back to you. 

Geta and Caracalla were speechless, both stared at you intensely. “However, on my way out. I ran into guards, so I lied to them that I was seeking advice from Macrinus so he wouldn’t suspect anything, hopefully that worked-” Geta suddenly interrupted you. “What kind of advice did you speak of?” He asked with narrowed eyes. “A-about you, Caesar. Both of you, I uhm...sort of told him or rather asked him how I could- charm you? All to make him believe that I was there for that of course, to make him think I’m just...a girl with an affection for the Emperors.” You mumbled, it was clear your face was flushing red again.

“Hm.” Was Geta’s only response. Caracalla bit his lower lip. As if they hadn’t heard you talk about the treason you had discovered. “What will happen to him now?” You decided to ask, breaking the ever growing silence. “I want to make sure that I have multiple sources that can confirm...some sort of conspiracy being formed.” Geta spoke while he ran a hand through his hair. “Exactly, for now, we might reward you. For your loyalty and devotion to your Emperors.” Caracalla added.

“I just wish to serve the empire- and my Emperors of course.” You smiled, adjusting the bracelet on your wrist. You were slightly afraid to look at them, even though you wanted to know so badly how they would reward you- how they would maybe touch you. “What do you think, brother?” Caracalla asked, looking to his side. “I agree, you are so very devoted, and you have our ear, and trust. For that we must thank you.” Geta grinned. 

Your heart sped up as Geta then stood from his seat, walking over to you. Caracalla was quick to join him, afraid of missing out. “Has a man ever kissed you?” Geta asked with a lowered voice. “Well yes,” You answered, the brothers both sucked in a breath, trying to hold in their anger, “on my hand. Is...that what you mean?” They almost both released it at the same time too before Caracalla laughed. “No, not quite.” Geta smiled. 

“Let me show you, show you how good we can make you feel.” Caracalla breathed heavily, each word dripping with want. Geta licked his lips, his stare was captivating but terrifying at the same time. You nodded at his words, you could feel your skin grow hot, breathing feeling more laboured. It was then Caracalla lost all resolve and surged forward, pressing his lips hard against yours. His tongue then forced open your lips and you couldn’t help but moan in both surprise and desire. 

Geta joined you on your side, letting his hand roam your body before settling on your breast. Caracalla put one of his hands at the back of your neck to keep you in place while he moved his tongue inside your mouth, he couldn’t help but let out groans of relief. Finally they had you alone, and finally they could take what they wanted. It was then you felt Geta’s mouth in your neck, his warm tongue licking your skin. His mouth sucking the flesh from time to time. 

Caracalla then was forced to come up for air, to which he pawed at your toga. You noticed how he now had a bulge at his groin and wondered if that was because of his excitement. Geta helped his brother with your clothes, unclasping it at the middle while Caracalla worked on the clasps at your shoulders. “What are you going to do?” You almost whimpered out, you still felt the need to know their next moves.

“Geta is going to make you feel very very good, for everything you’ve done for us. And then- perhaps you can make us feel good too. Would you like that?” Caracalla almost heaved out, finally he had undone the clasps and his hand was quick to tug down your toga to reveal your bare chest. Nipples hardening at the cool air that blew through the room. “Fuck.” Caracalla whined. “Gods I need to taste you-” Geta rushed out before he slid off the settee and knelt before you, forcing Caracalla to sit at your other side. 

Lust completely overtook your senses and all you could think about was them, more importantly their hands on you, what they looked like bare and what they would do next. “Please- I want more-” You confessed, forgetting all your manners. Geta chuckled lowly as he spread your legs, lifting up the skirt of your toga slowly as if to not tease you, but himself. Geta could feel how hard he was, something he hadn’t been around anyone but you ever since you met. You did not only just leave their company earlier, you left them aching, with full balls and unmet needs.

Caracalla turned your head to face him again, before he kissed you hungrily once more. It was now his hands that groped at your breasts. “Such, irresistible tits-” He panted between kisses, when he broke off, you could feel Geta’s hands caressing your now bare thighs. “An irresistible cunt too brother- so fucking wet and swollen-” Geta mumbled before he spread your legs further and dove in. A cry left your lips when he licked your folds with his tongue. “Yeah? Does that feel good?” Caracalla teased, still massaging both your mounds. “Perhaps I’ll have a taste of these while my brother feasts on your cunt.” He whispered in your ear.  

You nodded impatiently, you had no words for how Geta was lapping at your pearl. Strings of moans and cries left you, you felt like pushing Geta away while at the same time pulling him closer. Geta whined and shuddered himself, while his mouth sucked and licked at you, not wanting it all to be over too soon. Caracalla couldn’t resist anymore and kissed from your mouth down your neck. Sucking on the skin at your collarbone before he took your left nipple in his mouth.

A loud whine escaped you at the feeling of one brother between your thighs while the other sucked at your breasts. You didn’t even notice how Caracalla was touching himself over his toga, he couldn’t help it- all the excitement and teasing had made him so hard, his own arousal started to leak on his thigh. Caracalla sent vibrations over your skin while he moaned around your nipple, his own stimulation adding to his arousal.

“I can’t- I-” Your back arched and you instinctively gripped Geta’s hair, your breath stuck in your throat as your first orgasm sucked the life out of you. Your soul felt like it was departing with the way Geta did not cease his actions, instead he lapped at you faster. “No! Please-” You choked on air as your legs began to shake, Geta noticed then how overstimulated you were and ended his torment. His own scalp was aching from how you pulled it but he was desperate to feel it again. 

Caracalla was still suckling at your breast, his hand massaging his cock over the fabric covering it. Geta came up to kiss you now your lips had a break from his brother. Pausing before he spoke, “Do you taste yourself on my tongue? Such a delicious cunt you have- all ours- only ours.” Geta rambled. He didn’t even give you time to answer before he resumed kissing you, his tongue now lapping inside your mouth instead. Then Geta moved your hand to his bulge, encouraging you to squeeze it, massage it. He hissed when you did, whispering praises in your ear as you jerked him over his clothes. 

He was about to remove his toga to resume your activities when three heavy and loud knocks pierced the room. “What?!” Geta screamed, making you flinch as his voice penetrated your ear. Caracalla paused his movements too, looking up with ragged breath. “I apologise your majesty but General Acacius is asking for his daughter, he would like to take her home.” An unknown voice explained on the other side of the large doors, probably a Praetorian. “Not now! Fuck off!” Caracalla then screamed. They were both good at that.

“I’m afraid he is insisting, Caesar.” The voice continued. You had almost completely forgotten your father and Lucilla were still somewhere in the palace, waiting for you. “Perhaps, we could- continue... this, when we have more time?” You meekly suggested. Geta looked at his brother who shook his head no, but Geta knew better. He did not want his best General to know yet what he and his twin were doing to his precious daughter, if he decided to send you away or even leave with you, it would ruin everything. 

Geta knew the best course of action was to have you return later, to avoid suspicion and to keep you around. “You will come back later, perhaps tomorrow.” Geta decided, you nodded. “No, no, no! We have not finished yet!” Caracalla almost cried, he finally had you, and now you were being ripped away from him? “Brother, she will come back, now to avoid further suspicion, she should come back tomorrow.” Geta insisted. Caracalla let go of you and sat back with a scoff. 

“I’m sorry Caesar, I will come back, I promise.” You told him sweetly, before making the bold move to kiss him on his cheek. That little goodbye kiss was not enough for him, he turned you and kissed you on your lips before reluctantly letting go. Geta then helped you with your toga while Caracalla definitely pouted next to you, refusing to help. And you knew you were in too deep when Geta finished dressing you, helped you stand and kissed you softly before caressing your cheek and bringing you back to your father...

[justanothersanjilover]

Here me out:

One Piece Zosan Soulmate AU, where at 18, you get the ability to summon a familiar. An animal of any kind, natural or mythical. The familiar is there to keep you company and help you get through your life. On a rare occasion, you bond with your familiar so much that it becomes your soulmate and turns human - but that’s not the norm because you have to love your familiar with every fiber of your being, and it has to return this feeling. It’s hard work, and most people don't even bother because you don't have the desire to only live with your soulmate until your familiar turns into it.

Judge always told Sanji that he couldn't summon a familiar because he had modified him, so he didn't have one or couldn't reach his. In his eyes, he’s too weak to deserve one with all his emotions.

On the quadruplets' 18th birthday, Judge, in his generosity, gave Ichiji, Niji, Yonji, and Reiju permission to finally summon their familiars because he knew they would use them like weapons. Sanji is left outside of the ceremony because he doesn't have a familiar and thus doesn't need to know how to summon one. He really wanted to watch but couldn't sneak past the guards in front of the throne room.

So he watched as his siblings all walk out of the ceremony with big animals as familiars. Ichiji got a lion with wings that’s taller than him. Niji had an eagle with an iron beak and claws that could carry him on his back. Yonji’s familiar turned out to be a huge silverback gorilla with stone fists that could fight with brutal force like crazy. And Reiju got a big snake that could spit venom over fifty feet wide and had a blade as it’s tail tip. The deadly Germa soldiers just got deadlier.

But it wasn't easy for the four siblings. Their familiars couldn't bond with them due to the fact that they weren't able to form an emotional bond. They had to punish them often for destroying property of the kingdom and not listening to orders. In the end, the four animals turned out to be scared, violent creatures who learned to listen because of pain and punishment.

Seeing this, Sanji was actually happy he couldn't summon one. He wouldn't be able to stand the sight of his familiar being punished because it would please his father. Because - let’s be for real - Sanji was the punching back of the family, his familiar certainly would be, too.

One day, after his brothers had beaten him up badly and chased him through the woods with their familiars, Sanji sat under a big tree crying his eyes out. Suddenly, his name echoed through his mind as if something or someone was calling him. He thought he was finally going crazy because the calling didn't stop even after hours.

He was still sitting under the tree when a different name appeared in his mind. And in the beginning, he was irritated. He didn't know anyone by that name. But when the name was said time and time again, Sanji felt the need to say it out loud. He bit his tongue because why would he say a random name he never heard before? After some time, the voice disappeared, and Sanji sighed, relieved.

But it wouldn't stop there. In the course of the next months, it happened again and again! At random times and in random situations - but often when he was beaten up or experimented on. Months turned into a year and the name always came back.

After a particularly hard beating from his brothers - which left him bleeding in the woods again - the name came back to him. The need to say it got stronger with every moment. He was weak, on the brink of passing out and he didn't care about being weird. With blood dripping from his mouth, he sat up on his knees and breathed out the name.

“Zoro…”

Nothing happened and he wanted to scream. Because why was the name torturing him for months and when he finally gave in, nothing happened?! He raised his head to the sky, hands clawed in his hair and opened his mouth in a silent scream.

But then a warm wind blew over his body. There was a presence right in front of him. Lowering his head, his breath caught in his throat.

“What took you so long?” A voice rumbled through his mind - the voice that had kept calling his name for the past year. “Why are you bloody? Who did this to you?”

The voice was concerned but also filled with contained anger.

“Zoro?”

“Yes…”

“Zoro.”

“Sanji?”

Something clicked in Sanji’s mind. He wasn't going mad…it was him calling his name. He was…but how?

“Zo…ro…”

Sanji felt tears spilling down his cheeks while his senses began to dull. The blackness of losing consciousness pulled him in. He swayed and fell forward. But he didn't hit the ground. He fell against a big, soft snout. Green hair tickled his face.

“I’m dreaming…” he mumbled against the fur, combing a bloody hand through it.

“No, but you should rest for now. We talk when you wake up.”

The dark, rumbly voice kept talking until Sanji was sleeping against the side of the massive, green Tiger - which would make sure no one was laying a hand on his human ever again, not under his watch!

(This is now turning into a fic over here 😁)

[hrizantemy]

Hi! Can you do a nesta x eris smut scene or where the inner circle is jealous of nesta relationship with others?? We know that nesta is a goddess that everyone worships… if you see where I’m going with this….💜

Okay first of all I’m so sorry I didn’t see this — but yes absolutely I can!!! Nesta being the goddess that everyone secretly (or not-so-secretly) worships? The Inner Circle seething while Eris just gets her in a way they never could? Yeah…

It had been nearly four years since Nesta vanished from the Night Court. Four years since she’d stood, spine stiff, in the House of Wind’s doorway and said nothing at all before she left. Not a goodbye. Not a warning. Not even a last cruel remark. Just gone—taking Eris Vanserra’s outstretched hand and vanishing into Autumn, leaving a silence so loud Feyre still sometimes heard it echo through Velaris.

No one had taken it well. Not Cassian, who had torn through the skies that first night searching for her, wings trembling with desperation. Not Azriel, who had returned after days of hunting, jaw clenched, shadows curling tighter than usual. Not Rhysand, who had been silent—too silent—until the rage cracked and boiled beneath his skin. And Feyre—she hadn’t known how to feel. Betrayed, maybe. Confused. Heartbroken. Not just for her sister, but for all the ways they’d failed to reach her. And yet… a part of her had understood. Nesta had always needed to burn her bridges before she crossed them.

The High Lord of Autumn had died within a year. Beron Vanserra’s corpse had not even grown cold before Eris took the throne. There had been whispers—poison in the goblet, a final push down marble steps, a daemon’s deal struck in blood. Feyre hadn’t cared. None of them had. Not until it became clear Eris wasn’t just ruling. He was changing things. Slowly. Deliberately. He had cut out the rot of Beron’s court and begun building something new.

And Nesta—Nesta was by his side, not as a consort in the shadows, but as his Lady. No one had officially confirmed it, not even the Autumn emissaries, but there was no mistaking the circlet she wore, nor the weight of her silence when questioned. Nesta Vanserra. Feyre hated the sound of it.

Now, seated at a polished table of pale stone in the Dawn Court’s grand solar, Feyre stared across at her sister. Nesta sat beside Eris, dressed in rust-red silk and gold, her hair braided back in a severe, elegant twist. She hadn’t looked at her once. Hadn’t even acknowledged her presence—hadn’t flinched when Rhysand entered, hadn’t shifted when Cassian, silent and brooding as death, took his seat at Feyre’s side. There was nothing in her face. No hint of warmth, no flicker of recognition. Just cold, Autumn stillness. A queen carved of ember and iron.

Thesan’s voice droned on—talks of land disputes, reparations from Hybern’s fallout, trade routes and border control—but Feyre barely heard him. Her gaze was locked on Nesta. Wondering how her sister had become so unreadable. Wondering what had been broken, or reforged, to make her stay. Wondering, perhaps, if Nesta had finally found peace in a court built on ruin and fire. Or if this—this poised, distant creature across from her—was just another mask, worn so tightly that even Feyre could no longer see where the real Nesta began.

The conversation lulled only briefly before Thesan, High Lord of the Dawn Court, folded his pale hands atop the crystal scroll he’d been reading from. His tone, though unfailingly pleasant, held the subtle edge of irritation—a diplomat’s exhaustion with theatrics. “We’ve heard from Summer and Day, and now from Winter,” he said, his golden gaze drifting across the table. “Spring has remained neutral. Night… silent. But it is time we all speak plainly. The borders are strained. Tensions still flare in the East. Trade stagnates in the North. Peace has been a word more often used than practiced.”

He looked around the table, then added carefully, “Perhaps the Lady of Autumn would care to begin?”

A pause. A tightening of shoulders. A few glances—Feyre felt them, like thorns pricking skin—darted toward her, then to Rhysand, then to Nesta. Even Lucien, seated at the end of the table like a piece no court quite knew what to do with, leaned forward slightly, as if bracing for a blow.

Nesta moved with the elegance of a drawn blade. She did not shift in discomfort, nor cast even a glance toward the Night Court contingent. She simply lifted her chin, placed her hands—graceful, ungloved—on the polished table, and said, “Autumn will not allow itself to become the battlefield for another war. Nor will we play passive witness while other courts suffer. Trade must resume. Travel must be safe. And the treaties of old are no longer enough.”

Her voice was low and smooth, like fire licking at old paper. The accent she had once shared with Feyre was faded now, reshaped by courtly diction and diplomacy. There was no venom, no heat, only clarity—a terrifying, cold certainty.

“We have begun restructuring our northern routes,” she continued, speaking as though she had been born for it. “The rivers are open again to cargo vessels, and the mountain passes will be cleared by next month. We are prepared to share resources and militia aid to any court that requires it. But we will not offer that aid freely. If this peace is to mean anything, it must be held by more than hope. It must be held by consequence. Agreements that are broken will be met with retribution.”

Feyre could feel Cassian tense beside her, could feel Rhysand’s power flicker like stormlight under his skin. Nesta went on, undeterred. “Autumn is ready to sign a new accord. One forged not on the ideals of the past, but on the reality of the present. We do not forget the war. We do not forget who stood and who fled. And we will not forget who remains silent now.”

Silence fell—true silence. Even Thesan’s ever-poised face showed a flicker of surprise. No one had expected Nesta to speak. Not so directly. Not with power laced beneath every word like a gauntlet of molten steel. And when Eris finally leaned back, amusement curling faintly at the corner of his mouth, he didn’t interrupt her. He didn’t correct or temper her words. He let her speak for Autumn as if the title she wore was not merely ornamental—but earned.

The silence stretched taut, brittle as glass. Feyre felt it in her bones, the way the room held its breath in the wake of Nesta’s words. It wasn’t just that she’d spoken—it was how. The steel in her voice, the certainty in her posture, the way she had commanded the space like it was hers by right. Not a woman plucked from the gutter, not a sister burdened by grief or shame or the ashes of war—but a High Lady in everything but name. A wolf cloaked in fire and blood-red silk. And the worst part was—Feyre didn’t know whether to be proud or afraid.

Then Rhysand spoke.

His voice was velvet and venom, the kind that softened right before it sank its teeth in. “Bold words, Lady Nesta,” he said, drawing every eye in the chamber toward him. His expression was calm, unreadable, but Feyre could feel the current shifting under his skin, dark and cold and rising like a tide. “Especially from someone who abandoned her people without so much as a backward glance.”

There it was. The first strike.

Nesta didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Eris turned slightly, as if to speak, but she touched his arm once—barely a gesture, yet enough to still him. She looked only at Rhysand, and something flickered in her eyes—faint, too quick to read. Then it was gone. Only the silence remained.

Rhysand leaned forward, his hands clasped, elbows on the polished stone. “You speak of peace, of structure, of unity—but let’s not pretend your presence here isn’t a power play. Beron is barely cold in his grave, and already you sit at Eris’s right hand, draped in the spoils of your new allegiance. You speak of not forgetting who fled—but remind me, Nesta, who exactly ran first?”

“Enough,” Thesan began, but Rhysand didn’t stop.

“You fled from your court. From your family. From your responsibilities. You left the House that fed you, the court that sheltered you, the people who mourned you. You vanished and reappeared with a new title and a crown no one saw placed. And now you sit here as though you built this peace from ash and blood. Don’t lecture us about consequence.”

Nesta rose.

Not abruptly, not in a way that suggested she was shaken or angry. But like smoke rising from the heart of a fire—slow, inevitable, consuming. “I fled,” she said, her voice low and steady, “because I was drowning. And I found no lifeline in Night. Only hands that held me under.”

The words hit like a slap, and Feyre felt something in her chest fracture.

“I did not take Eris’s offer out of ambition. I took it because it was the first one that did not come with a leash. He did not ask me to kneel. He did not ask me to be good. He asked if I wanted to start over.” Her gaze swept across the room. “And I did.”

The silence returned, but this time it was sharp. Charged. Not even the wind stirred outside the high glass windows of the Dawn Court. Only the echo of Nesta’s voice remained, heavy in the air like smoke refusing to clear.

And Feyre, heart hammering in her chest, realized that no matter what side Nesta stood on now—she had never been more powerful. Or more alone.

Eris didn’t speak right away. He let the silence simmer—let the weight of Nesta’s words soak into the stone walls and polished floor of the Dawn Court’s solar. There was a sharpness to him even in stillness, like a blade resting beside a hearth—waiting, not idle. His crimson tunic, embroidered with delicate golden leaves, shimmered faintly in the sunlight filtering through the glass dome above. A cruel, quiet opulence. He ran a single finger along the rim of his goblet, watching the others like a fox studying the henhouse, his golden eyes glittering with something that almost looked like satisfaction. Or perhaps warning.

And then, softly, he said, “My Lady speaks not out of ambition, but from memory.”

The room bristled—Feyre felt it again, that tension like lightning under her skin. She looked toward him, and the sight of Eris Vanserra so at ease, so utterly in control beside Nesta, sent a cold trail of unease down her spine. This wasn’t the jaded, smirking heir of Autumn they had known for years. This was a ruler. And he was dangerous in a new, chilling way.

Eris stood now, but not with fanfare. His movement was smooth, practiced. Every inch of him spoke of courtly precision and leashed violence. “The truth is inconvenient, I know,” he said, voice calm as ever, almost bored. “But let’s not pretend that the Night Court has ever handled its own well. I remember how you all treated her—like a problem to be fixed. A beast to be tamed. You cloaked it in kindness, of course, in missions and offers and friendship, but it was always conditional, wasn’t it?”

He turned slightly, gold eyes finding Rhysand. “Be what we need you to be, or be nothing. Be grateful, or be gone.” A thin smile curled his lips. “Well, she is gone. And I would suggest you all start adjusting to the fact that she is never returning to your little court of starlight and half-truths.”

Rhysand’s power darkened beside Feyre, as if the very air recoiled from Eris’s words. Cassian’s hand twitched where it rested against his sword belt, but Eris didn’t flinch, didn’t so much as glance at him. His attention was fixed only on Rhysand, as though this entire performance had always been for him.

“Autumn is no longer a fractured court ruled by the whims of a tyrant. It is mine. And I will not allow it to be spoken down to, diminished, or used. Nesta rules beside me. She is not my pet, not my project. She is my equal.” He paused, letting the words settle, and there was something like steel beneath his voice when he added, “And any insult to her is an insult to me.”

The implication hung in the air like a blade.

Feyre swallowed hard. Across the table, Nesta hadn’t moved—hadn’t even blinked. But the faintest motion of her head, the way she inclined it just slightly toward Eris… it wasn’t affection. It was recognition. Deference. Respect. There was a strange, terrible intimacy to it. The kind that wasn’t born in love or passion, but in survival. In fire forged alliances.

Eris smiled then, just a flash of white teeth. “Now,” he said, drawing the attention of Thesan and the others once more, “shall we return to the discussion of peace treaties, or shall we continue airing personal grievances disguised as diplomacy?”

And just like that, with a flick of his wrist and the cold brilliance of his poise, Eris Vanserra shifted the balance of the room. He had taken control of the conversation. And the worst part—the most terrifying part—was that no one stopped him. Not even Rhysand.

Tarquin’s voice broke through the silence again, and this time there was a different note in it—measured, deliberate, but no less resolute. He sat straighter in his seat, his golden skin catching the soft light of the Dawn Court’s great dome, his sea-glass eyes focused not on Rhysand, but on Eris—and then, deliberately, on Nesta. “The Summer Court will stand with Autumn,” he said. His words were not loud, but they rang with clarity, as undeniable as the crash of surf against a cliff. “We will support open trade through your rivers and ports, and extend the same to our own. If you seek a new accord rooted in structure and accountability—not fear—we will sign it. If you extend peace, we will return it.”

He didn’t smile, didn’t perform his alliance for the room. He simply laid it down like a stone in the foundation of something new. “We’ve spent too long nursing old wounds and waiting for old grudges to heal. The world has changed. It’s still changing. We can either move with it or be crushed by it. I choose to move forward—with those who are willing to rebuild.”

Feyre felt Rhysand stiffen beside her, the cool, slow press of his power shifting beneath his skin. But Tarquin didn’t even glance his way. His focus was unwavering. His loyalty, quiet but firm.

Then Kallias stood, the fur-lined mantle of his rank draped around his shoulders like a second skin. Viviane rose with him, her hand brushing briefly against his—unspoken unity between them as clear as ice under moonlight. “Winter agrees,” Kallias said, his breath fogging faintly in the cool air that now whispered through the solar. “We’ve had enough of isolation. Enough of old debts and colder silence. If Autumn offers peace, and demands honor to uphold it, then Winter will honor it in return. Our caravans will resume their routes through your forests. Our soldiers will not march past your borders unless invited.”

Kallias nodded once, firm. “Winter stands with Autumn. For peace. For trade. For what comes next.”

And there it was. A shift in the axis of power. Not shouted, not dramatic—but unmistakable. Tarquin and Kallias had both spoken, and with their courts behind them, the room no longer tilted so heavily in Night’s favor. The old alliances, once ironclad in the aftermath of war, were fraying. Nesta had not only survived—she had reshaped the board. And Feyre sat in stunned silence, wondering if any of them had ever truly understood her sister at all.

The air remained heavy with the weight of declaration and shifting allegiance, but Thesan—ever the graceful mediator—broke the tension with a slow, measured breath. His sun-gold robes shimmered as he leaned forward, lips curving into a subtle smile that was equal parts diplomatic charm and genuine amusement. “It seems,” he said lightly, “that the tide is changing faster than some of us anticipated.”

A ripple of uneasy laughter—strained, uncertain—moved around the table. But Thesan didn’t press it. Instead, he reached for the scroll resting near his elbow, one sealed with a pale green ribbon. He held it aloft between two fingers, the wax mark of the Spring Court glinting under the stained glass light.

“Though High Lord Tamlin could not be here in person,” Thesan said, unrolling the parchment with practiced elegance, “he did see fit to send a formal letter regarding Spring’s current position on the matter of open borders and regional cooperation.”

He read it aloud, his voice steady and melodic, made for diplomacy. “The Spring Court recognizes the necessity of cross-court collaboration in this era of rebuilding. As such, we will begin opening our southern borders to trade routes passing through both Autumn and Summer. The court is stable, its lands recovering, and we offer our hand to those who approach in good faith.”

Thesan paused, lifting his gaze as the scroll curled faintly in his hands. “Tamlin further writes that while he has no immediate intention of signing a formal alliance, he does not oppose the restructuring of trade agreements and will abide by any newly ratified treaties agreed upon at this council. In other words,” he said with a soft chuckle, “Spring is prepared to cooperate—and quietly.”

Around the table, there were nods—some surprised, some approving. Eris didn’t even bother to hide his smirk, and beside him, Nesta remained still, her hands folded neatly before her, eyes unreadable.

Thesan smiled again, folding the scroll with crisp precision. “It would appear that, for the first time in a long time, the courts are beginning to speak the same language.”

Helion lounged back in his seat like a lion sunbathing on a marble dais, the golden embroidery on his robes catching the light as if the Day Court itself had stitched the stars into the fabric. For all his ease, there was a watchfulness in his gaze—sharp, amused, and entirely unbothered by the tension winding tighter around the table. He tapped one ringed finger against the arm of his chair, then lifted his gaze toward Thesan and said, in a voice as rich and smooth as aged wine, “Well, it seems Day will have to join the celebration.”

His words carried with them the warm glow of sunlight, but underneath was the bite of something more cunning. “The Day Court is prepared to open its southern routes and offer trade to Autumn, Summer, and Winter alike. Our scholars have long anticipated the need for new accords—ones that reflect the current state of power, not the remnants of old grudges. We’ve already begun preparations to establish embassies in border regions, and I’ve instructed my court architects to draft plans for a joint market initiative near our shared edges with Autumn and Summer.”

He smiled faintly, almost lazily, but there was weight behind the words—an unmistakable signal that Day would not be left behind in this emerging alliance. “We are ready to sign the new treaty, assuming the final terms are as mutually beneficial as promised.” He glanced toward Eris and Nesta, then gave the latter a slow, approving nod. “It is refreshing, truly, to see power used to build rather than dominate. You’ve constructed something worthy of respect, Lady Autumn.”

Feyre felt Rhysand go still beside her. Not a twitch. Not a sound. But his shadows coiled tighter like snakes preparing to strike, and the flicker of power beneath his skin turned colder, sharper. She could feel him calculating—measuring the weight of each word spoken, watching the table he had once dominated slowly turn without him.

Helion, ever the showman, folded his hands together and turned his bright, clever gaze directly on Rhysand. “Which means, unless I’ve miscounted—and I rarely do—Day, Summer, Winter, Spring, Dawn, and Autumn are all prepared to move forward. Which leaves only Night.”

Silence.

“Curious,” he added, with the arch of a single brow and a tilt of his head that dripped with theatrical flair, “how quickly the world shifts, doesn’t it? Night once led the charge. But now… it seems the stars have gone dim.”

It was a masterful blow—wreathed in elegance, wrapped in gold, but no less devastating for its beauty. Feyre’s pulse roared in her ears. She could feel the weight of every eye in the room swinging toward them now. Toward Rhysand. Toward her.

And across the table, Nesta did not flinch. She did not smirk. She simply watched. Cold and quiet. Waiting to see what her former court would do next.

The air was so tight with tension Feyre thought she might choke on it. Shadows licked at the edges of Rhysand’s frame, faint and flickering like the final coils of smoke from a dying fire. He hadn’t moved a muscle during Helion’s calculated strike—hadn’t even blinked when the High Lords had spoken in turn, pledging trade, allegiance, and cooperation with the court of Autumn. Not a single ripple of power escaped him, but Feyre knew him too well. She could feel it—how the silence was not strength, but pressure. Cracking glass. Fracturing pride. He had been backed into a corner, and Rhysand had never been a male who tolerated corners well.

He stood slowly, every inch of him a portrait of polished elegance and simmering restraint. His voice, when it came, was low and smooth, but it scraped like ice against glass. “The Night Court,” he said carefully, “will consider the terms of this alliance. We will review the proposed treaties, assess the implications for our existing borders and trade routes, and determine the best course of action for our people.”

It was noncommittal. Political. A vague promise wrapped in courtly language. But everyone at the table knew exactly what it meant.

He was cornered. And he was buying time.

Feyre watched the way his violet eyes scanned the others—assessing, weighing. His gaze lingered on Eris for a breath too long, unreadable, before it drifted to Nesta. Still, she didn’t move. Not even to look away. She simply met his stare, calm as a queen carved from cold stone. And Rhysand… for the first time in years, Feyre saw something unfamiliar on his face.

Uncertainty.

He turned to Thesan next, offering a faint, tight smile. “I trust the Dawn Court will allow us a few days to draft our response.”

Thesan inclined his head graciously, though the glint in his eyes said he had heard exactly what Rhysand hadn’t said. The entire room had. There had once been a time when Night would have led the charge—when Rhysand’s voice alone would have turned the tide. But now, he stood on the edge of a new order—one that had formed without him, and was solidifying by the moment.

Feyre’s hands curled in her lap beneath the table, her palms slick with a cold sweat. She could feel the fracture lines splintering beneath their feet. Not just in politics. In power. In perception. They had ruled as the court of innovation, of rebellion, of glory—and yet now, it was Nesta who had turned rebellion into a crown, who had built something fierce and functional out of her own ashes.

Rhysand sat again, slower this time, as if to remind them all he was still a High Lord. Still power incarnate. But Feyre knew the truth. She saw it in the fine set of his jaw, in the coil of shadows that would not settle.

He’d just been outmaneuvered.

And Nesta hadn’t needed magic to do it—only a voice, and a table of ears finally willing to listen.

[fabled-fiction]

Temptations of the Wolf

Cregan Stark x Targaryen!Reader

Summary: Being a Targaryen meant sacrifice. Being a Stark meant sacrifice. Both these houses know the service of duty well. But when war is amiss, and two leaders of these respective houses meet to discuss allegiance, feelings for one another bubble to the surface and get in the way. Oh how the winds of war turn would be lover on would be lover.

Word Count: 3.4k

Warnings: MAYBE POSSIBLE SPOILER ISH FOR EP 1. Angst, Foribbiden-ish Love, Use of (Y/N), proof read only by author.

A/N: I AM A HOTD TV SHOW PERSON ONLY!!! I did research on wikis to try and write Cregan correctly, however I am but a simple man that writes fanfiction, so mischaracterization isn't totally unavoidable. ENJOY!

A dragon does not get cold.

A dragon does not feel the cold as they have fire brewing under their scales, penetrating not only their bones but also their soul. The soul of a dragon is a fiercely burning one, said to run so hot that their touch alone melts the thickest of ice.

(Y/N) Targaryen knew of this fire better than any dragon. Or that is what the people of King’s Landing had quickly grown to best know them by. Growing up within the tense house of Targaryen, especially during war times, justly called for you to have more than just a spine of a predator.

To survive amongst dragons, you must be able to breathe their fire.

Making every other tense occasion feel as though you were walking on air.

Perhaps there was another reason as to why you felt no fear as you flew North. A reason that bore the Stark symbol.

That is why, as Polarxes rode through the winter chill, with the wind daring to snip at your skin you felt calm. At peace almost, even as the great Wall came into view.

It was realized that in order to keep the throne that was meant to stay in the hands of your brother Aegon, relations had to be made. Families and Houses had bent the knee for King Visery’s heir not long ago, and it was soon made apparent that your family would have to make the same bend the knee again for Aegon. Just to make sure that loyalties lied with the correct Targaryen.

Whilst you particularly did not care for such politics, or politics in general, your mother had other plans. Seeing as you and Aemond stood as…the most intimidating of the family it was an easy decision to send the both of you out to ensure alliances were made and pacts bonded.

You knew that the decision to send you to the Wall was laced with more than just truce in mind. Your mother was a cunning woman, and recalled the times that whenever the Starks came to make your acquaintance you favored the nip of the cold family over the burning of the dragon pit. The touch of their ice, and the gaze of one particular wolf.

As your dragon landed, her talons digging in to break, you took a moment to yourself to feel the snowflakes rest on your warm cheeks and melt into the white of your roots. The cold felt nice on your skin that had grown used to the humidity of King’s Landing. To feel at ease in your skin, to have even the opportunity to cool off was an unknown blessing of this trip.

“I hope the ride here was not too tiresome for your dragon here, the winds can be quite hard in preparation for the change of season.”

Looking down at the boy, who looked no older than four and ten years of age, you smiled as you slid off your dragon with ease. She shook her head in response, her ivory scales offering her a sort of camouflage to the elements around her as she settled down. The heat of her breath alone melted whatever ice laid around her, the rest becoming swept up as her wings folded in. 

Whilst you looked at her with admiration, you could tell that this was the first dragon the boy had ever seen. It was a mix of awe and fear that flooded his eyes, which you did not doubt also kept him frozen still in fear of her eating him to remain warm.

“Do not worry about her, she is not the dragon that will eat you alive should you make one wrong move.”

A wolf does not get cold.

A wolf does feel the cold because the wolf knows how to bear the frigid winds. Their fur having grown to shift with the winds that come with winter. They stand strong against the chill of winter, and stand headfast at the front of the storm. 

The gaze of a wolf alone makes one question whether or not the storm bends to the wolf’s howl.

Cregan Stark knew that his house would come to be called upon soon enough. That is what comes with the winds of war. He just never felt bothered enough to actually busy himself with the calls of the storm.

But it became increasingly hard to ignore as a dragon landed at the gates of the Wall.

Especially when it was a dragon he recognized, that held a rider that had occupied his mind in the dark of the night as he stared into a fireplace. The lick of flames taunting him the same way a certain Targaryen had whenever in their presence.

He had begun to regret not knowing what exactly this storm of war would make him face.

The warmth of a Targaryen was hard to ignore, it made the men wish for the comfort of home as they were reminded of just how cold winter really was when left in their absence. A reaching hand hoping to grasp onto the hearth that was your soul. 

Even as he looked up toward the wall, the announcement of your presence was made when he felt sweat beghin to build on the back of his neck.

Turning towards you he noticed the sea of men that had parted to make a runway for you,almost as if they were presenting you to him. Or maybe it was the other way around as he noticed the way your predatory gaze ate up every inch of him.

He should have felt intimidated just by that alone.

You stood there before him, adorning only the one coat that seemed to mock the furs that he had adorned in order to retain even a fraction of the heat that you held onto. Your head was held high as you looked upon the Stark, giving him the smallest courtesy bow as your hand reached to shake his. He should not have been so eager to be in your presence upon the precipice of war.

Cregan Stark was no fool, he knew the reason for your visit. But still, appearances seemed to be becoming more and more important in this age.

“Lord Stark, I hope I am not intruding? There were some important business I’d like to discuss and well…dragons are faster than ravens.”

He offered you a curt smile as he stood to his full height, hoping to give himself an advantage on the conversation. Or at the very least to provide some distance to distract from the pit that had been lit a flame from your very speaking of his name.

“You’re not intruding in any way. Would you like to take this discussion somewhere more private, if the matter happens to be so important?”

You were not used to the Northern accent. The regality of the South had become your norm as you dealt with many affairs there, instead of bending to the will of the many Lord and Lady that wanted an audience with the great Targaryen rulers of the day. Thus you were used to their customs, clothing and accents.

Everything about the North always took you by surprise, and assaulted every sense that you had.

Cregan Stark was no different. If anything he made the divide even more stark as you set your gaze upon him.

He stood tall, and unbroken as he looked at you. The Wolf of the North was everything that had been said about him. Tall, broad, strong…handsome. His steeled eyes locked you in your place almost instantly. You weren’t sure if it was because you feared a single wrong move from you would provoke the beast or because you wanted to soak in every minute of his undivided attention. Never had you met someone with the same resolve as you, nor the same gaze.

You knew now why people were so intoxicated by you.

He always had that effect on you.

Taking his hand, stepping onto the lift you couldn’t help but be drawn to the cold that laid on his hands. The chill that ran up your arm from his touch alone made you want to keep a harsh grip on his gloved hand.

When the both of you were locked in, it was only then did your hands regretfully break apart by the jostle of the cables.

“I’m sure you know why I have made the trip all the way out here?” 

“Was it not to take in the view atop the wall?”

The chuckle that left your lips resonated throughout the cart, it made Cregan want to fill a book with quips that would draw similar sounds out of you. He smiled to himself as the ride came to a halt, and the two of you made the trip to a balcony overlooking the edge of the forsaken wall.

“ While that is a plus, I have come here as a courier from the Queen Mother. Whilst I believe you are busy with the responsibilities of defending the South from that of which come from those blasted woods, it would shock me to find you do not know of the developing situation within my family?”

His suspicions were confirmed. While there was no doubt you had come to discuss the usurping of the throne, it lifted some weight off his shoulder to know that you had been the one to broach the topic first. For some…unknown reason he felt hesitant to the idea of bringing up a topic that would only bring a scowl upon your face. Or any topic for that matter that would cause a crease to form between the bridge of your gaze.

But upon the question he found that you were calm and collected. As if you had not just brought up the topic of a deed that often led to disorder amongst the throne and council. Many of the men that served the wall had been sent here for just the discussion of mutiny alone.

Your confidence alone shook him, and confused him at the same time.

“I’m sure even the farthest reaches have heard of your brother taking his seat upon the Iron Throne. I'm confused however on what this has to do with me?”

Taking your gloves off, Cregan watched as you placed your hands on the edge of the ice that formed this pocket amongst the wall. Your shoulders dropped along with your head as you took in a deep breath. It was interesting to take in your mannerisms when it was just him instead of him and an audience. You behaved…well like a dragon. A foreboding presence that did not easily reveal their intentions, a ticking trap of anguish and fire. A continuous stream of steam left your nostrils as you took a moment to contemplate.

The dread that spilled from your exhale had Cregan convinced there was something more amiss this meeting of allegiance. 

“I truly do not care of the affairs of my brother, he has rarely acted on his own accord. Thus why I am here, to gather support of others that will make sure whatever whims he does hold are defended from those that aim to make all of this harder than it has to be.”

Looking at the palm of your hand that had been grasping the ice with a fury, you noticed that it had only now just started to turn pink. Whereas you were sure if anyone else had dared to meet flesh with ice, it would be purple and dead by now. It was a calming reassurance to feel the calming touch of ice. When looking into Cregan eyes, you felt a similar calm as his brows furrowed into a look that resembled something of sympathy.

He understood more than anyone the weight of duty.

“If I may ask, it seems as if you do not have much desire in the battles that are brewing? So why come here to make a play with a house that is known to keep their oaths?”

Of course he knew the weight of duty. The Stark house was known to be one of the most noble houses when it came to keeping a promise. They had bent the knee for your half sister years ago, so why must you have come out all this way to try and turn their tides? You truly did not want to come out all this way, only making the trip at the request of your mother who had become a thorn in your side ever since you made your indifference to the throne known.

You knew coming out this way would not sway the Stark, but instead sway you. 

“Who wishes for war? Only mad men desire a battle that would take their life,” Taking a moment to compose yourself, you straightened your back.

“Which is exactly why I come in hopes that you share the same sentiment.”

Your eyes seemed to hold all the emotions of the seven kingdoms. Cregan took a moment to compose himself, and remind himself that he was the Warden of the North. He does not need to consult himself on ways to keep the blaze of your heart lit. He had a job, just as you had yours.

Which is why he felt himself faltering.

“A Targaryen that does not wish of war? You are a rarity amongst your family (Y/N).”

Your name should have felt foreign to say. It was not dressed with honorifics, and he meant it. The lack of title that came before your name was with the purpose of bringing this conversation down to a more personal level. 

He watched as you tensed with him saying your name. But he knew it was not in offense, he could never offend you. It was in realization of the fragility of this conversation.

His informality was sealed when he rested his hand on the small of your back. The both of you just took in the moment to look beyond the wall. Cregan knew that this simple action could warrant reaction from you, it would be justified for you to take his hand and his tongue for even speaking to you in such a casual way.

Instead you melted into his touch, turning to face him.

He took this as an invitation to invade your space once more, taking a step forward to move a piece of hair that threatened to obscure his view of you.

“You flatter me, Lord Stark. But a compliment such as that will only do so much to sway me. I was sent here for a reason.”

His title wavered on your tongue as you spoke to him. This just drew more a response from him as he did not move, humming almost in agreeance as his hand found its place on your cheek. For a moment he felt jealous of the leather that dressed his palm, for it had the honor of holding you truely.

“Hmm yes, you were sent here for a reason. But could there not have been another? One that you hold instead, that trumps the duty you feel to your house?”

He was always good at reading you.

Perhaps you should have felt unease in coming here, to think it would just be a simple trip to the Wall that would just lead you to return home with nothing but a word that the Starks were not aligned with your house.

You were blinded by the urge to see him, the want to make his acquaintance one more time before the realm tore itself apart. “Cregan…”

His name fell from your lips with a whisper, as if you were praying to the gods above to harden your resolve.

“Tell me the real reason you came here.”

He was incredibly close now, his presence shadowing over yours. He covered you in a shroud of snow, his touch almost paralyzing you as you remained locked in a fight of wills.

Who would win? The fearsome dragon or the unbending wolf?

“To speak with you. There are…alliances that need to be made in order to keep my family from tearing itself and the world apart.”

This earned a frown from him as he leaned even closer to you. He assaulted every sense you had now. His eyes burned into yours, rivaling your gaze as his scent came over you. There was a reason you favored the smell of leather and musk. It reminded you of him.

“Could you just this once make a decision that was not dictated by your family, but rather made in lieu of what you wanted?”

Your hand reached up to hold his wrist of the hand that grounded you. Your touch was searing, Cregan knew that had you touched his skin he was sure there would be a burn where you had touched him. And he would wear it with honor.

He wondered if a kiss from you would be just as searing. If steam would rise from the both of your lips as you became one.

The fan of your breath over his cheeks threatened the very resolve he was known for.

This very act alone could be considered taking a side. The both of you would seal your fate if you fell blindly into your passions right at this second. A thought crossed the wolf’s mind, how truly awful would it have been to give in, even for just a moment?

Your hand on his cheek, a mirror of his own action, made him clasp his eyes shut as a shaky breath escaped his own trembling lips. 

He looked beautiful, in this very moment, you thought.

The both of you were so close, the desire of one thing burning in your mind as you stared at him.

You were never one for politics, but could that argument alone be excuse enough to betray the whims of your family for a single kiss from a man that would stand against them?

You wished to lite his lips ablaze with the passion of your touch.

He wished to swallow the fire that burned in your throat.

A dragon does not feel the cold.

A wolf does not feel the cold.

But right in this very moment they both wished the winds would freeze them in place, if not to hold onto the memory for just a moment longer.

“Cregan..”

“(Y/N)..”

The side of his nose seemed to fit perfectly against yours as he leaned in. Your hand rested up against the nape of his neck perfectly, anchoring both of you in this stance. 

Just as the both of you felt a graze of the other, there was the annoyance of another made present.

The squealing of the lift cables broke the silence, and thus breaking the tender moment of the two of you.

It wasn't until they came to a halt did you finally step back, and Cregan was left to imagine the moment for only a second before opening his eyes to the reality of the situation.

“Lord Stark, Prince Jacaerys Velaryon of house Velaryon has arrived to speak with you.”

With a small huff of a laugh, you straightened your cloak and looked out over the wall once more. 

This would probably be the last time you saw winter…the snow…and him.

Feeling his hand grip your chin, making you face him you could only chuckle as you held his face again. Only this time with longing and remorse. You were already mourning any possibility you had with him, and he knew it too as he looked down at you.

“I wish it were that easy…”

Leaning forward, you played with fire one last time as your lips came to rest on the corner of his. It was a quick moment, only giving yourself enough of it for the small gesture. You knew if you lingered for even a moment the Northerner would take it upon himself to seize whatever he could. And then you truely would be gone to the whims of a lovely passion.

Pulling away, you watched as he held where you had kissed him, before breaking away from your eye as you made your way to the lift to leave him.

But when his hand found your wrist, you could feel the fire brimming in your throat.

“Just…think about what I said…before its too late.”

Looking over your shoulder, you couldn't help but take the moment to study his face. Commit it to memory. Perhaps that is truly what you came here for. Not some silly test of allegiance, for you already had that answer before you even mounted your dragon.

No…it was to take in one last memory of the cold.

[riizegasm]

Blossom || M. JH

❀ pairing: crown prince!myung jaehyun x princess!reader, implied fem!reader

❀ genre: royalty!au, arranged marriage!au, fluff, minor angst

❀ word count: ~4.6k

❀ warnings: very minor royalty-typical misogyny (not from jaehyun)

❀ summary: A loveless marriage isn't high on anyone's list of desires, especially yours. However, all it takes is a certain crown prince to show you that duty and desire don't always have to conflict. With a little nurturing, love, too, can blossom.

❀ a/n: The writer’s block was so real for this fic!! Despite that, I do think it turned out pretty well. I hope you guys think so too. As always, likes, replies, and reblogs are encouraged. Happy reading!

masterlist

Dreams of your wedding day always consisted of one thing: love. Ever since you were little, you imagined being married to none other than the love of your life. It didn’t matter what dress you were wearing, be it the custom garments of your kingdom or the ornate ceremonial dresses of another, because you would be marrying someone you loved. The cake could be flavorless and bland, and the crown that you wore could be heavy or feather light. None of that mattered. Because you would be in love. 

You were not in love with Crown Prince Myung Jaehyun. And yet, you were set to wed him anyway. 

Your stomach churns as the traditional shell calls of your kingdom go off, their airy whistle signifying the entrance of your guests. As the gilded doors to the throne room open, your breath remains caught in your throat as you lay eyes on the procession of people that enter. First, an older man, dressed in bright gem tones that match the ones in his crown. Then there’s a woman, her yellow and green satin dress flapping behind her in the wind. And finally, a young man. 

You don’t know what you expected the Crown Prince to look like, only having heard stories about how charming and personable he is. But when he enters the room, you are stunned by his appearance. He is breathtaking. 

His charisma bleeds off him in waves, emphasized by the kind smile he wears. It pulls his rounded cheeks upwards, boyish dimples indenting the golden surface. His gaze betrays some of his confidence, however, pupils shaking as they take in the room around him. It is only when he finally arrives at the center of the room, standing proudly next to his parents, that his eyes land on you.  

As a child, some of the aids in the palace used to tell you fantasy stories about what it felt like to be in love. They spoke of fluttering tummies and reddening cheeks, of a smile you’re unable to fight off and a lighter feeling when you’re around them. Looking at Crown Prince Myung Jaehyun gives you one of those four sensations, but by the glimmer in his eye, you’re sure it won’t be long before you check all of them off the list. 

“Welcome to Vyrona,” your father greets. “It is a pleasure to see you again, King Jaeseong, Queen Jirae.”

King Jaeseong grins, bowing his head in greeting. “It’s an honor, Your Majesty. I am delighted to introduce you to my son, Myung Jaehyun, the Crown Prince of Nexdor.”

The man in question bows at the waist, his crown not moving from its perfect position atop his light brown curls. “It’s an honor, Your Majesty.”

When Jaehyun returns to his upright position, his eyes find yours once again, not even bothering to continue to address the man in power. You can’t help but cock an eyebrow at the bold gesture, confused on why the man would choose to focus all of his attention on you instead of the conversation around him. At your silent question, Jaehyun just shoots you a small smirk, still refusing to break eye contact. 

“Well,” your father says, clapping his hands together once. “I am truly excited for the merging of our kingdoms. My daughter, Princess Y/N, is just as excited about the marriage as we are. I hope she is to your satisfaction, Prince Jaehyun.”

“She is breathtaking, Your Majesty. I would be honored to have her as my bride.”

Jaehyun speaks with conviction, words tinged with a hint of awe. It’s as if he genuinely believes what he’s saying, as if he is truly honored to be married to a woman he doesn’t even know. You can’t say that you necessarily agree. 

“Then it is settled,” your father declares. “Y/N will move to Nexdor in one month’s time, and the two of you will be wed in three.”

“That sounds lovely, Your Majesty,” Jaehyun beams. “I am looking forward to having such a gem come join us in Nexdor. I promise I will be nothing short of an amazing husband to your daughter.”

Your father chuckles, “I can tell.”

.         .         .

Lush grasses and sprawling gardens are all you can see as you peer out from your balcony. Nexdor has always been known as the “Green Kingdom”, but you were never able to experience it for yourself until this very moment. It makes sense that Nexdorians always have a lovely tan complexion and full, rounded faces. The sun is strong and the soil is rich, leading to plentiful harvests that never seem to wane. 

The pale color of the sky is dull in comparison to the rich ocean blue that you are used to in Vyrona, making you miss your sandy shores and the permanent sound of crashing waves. The wind doesn’t have a salty smell, but instead carries the mild scent of fresh flowers. Instead of crashing waves and gulls cawing, there are the faint squeals of livestock and the occasional bark of a dog. 

Nexdor seems to be teeming with life in the opposite way that you were used to in your kingdom. But you suppose the two simply exist as opposites, land and sea, sun and moon, meat and fish. You wonder if you and Jaehyun will exist as opposites as well, or if you can find some way to overcome your innate differences for the sake of the marriage. 

“Your highness?” A voice calls, punctuated by a firm rap of knuckles against the wooden doorframe. 

A glance over your shoulder reveals Jaehyun standing there, dressed much more casually than you had priorly seen him. It’s a good look on him, looser, relaxed garments and unkempt curls. He looks youthful and relaxed, undeniably attractive in the confident set of his shoulders and the soft smile he wears. It makes you wonder why rumors always raved about his personality rather than his looks. You guess he just must be that charming. 

“Come in,” you call from the balcony, not bothering to continue to look as the man approaches. 

In your periphery, you can make out the man leaning his forearms on the wooden railing of the balcony. He seems to be taking in the scenery, much like you are, eyes fluttering shut as a warm breeze begins to blow. 

“How are you settling in, Your Highness?”

You scoff. “We are set to be wed in a few months. I don’t think we quite need to refer to each other by title, don’t you agree?”

Jaehyun chuckles, ducking his head so it hangs between his shoulders. When he straightens up, he props his head in his hand, twisting his upper body to face you. You try your best not to stare at the slope of his nose or the plush of his lips, fighting the heat that is rising to your cheeks. 

“I guess you’re right. How are you settling in, Y/N?”

The flutter through your core has you taking a deep breath to steel your nerves. “It has been fine, I suppose. It has only been about an hour, so I can’t say that I have seen much. But it’s beautiful. Your kingdom is beautiful.”

Jaehyun’s smile widens, gaze never once leaving your own. “It surely is.”

There’s a moment of silence as you turn back to take in the scenery, letting the warmth of the sun caress your face. The Crown Prince simply continues to regard you, shameless in the way he scans your face. The undivided attention has anxiety bubbling in your abdomen. Never before had you been on the receiving end of such a stare, not during the numerous balls you had attended or during any royal appearances outside of the palace. 

“Is everything okay?” You ask softly, voice shaking with uncertainty. 

“Do you like flowers?”

The question takes you aback. “I suppose I do.”

“Which is your favorite?”

“I have always been quite fond of azaleas, specifically the bright pink ones. They tend to grow on bushes not too far from the shores of Vyrona.”

Jaehyun just smiles, nodding softly. “That suits you.”

When he finally turns to look out at the landscape, your shoulders sag in relief, no longer the sole object of the prince’s attention. You wonder if he is often like this, wide eyes sparkling as they take in every detail. Do his cheeks always dimple, or is it only when he smiles on certain occasions? Does his mouth always look so plush as it parts to form slow syllables?

“How are you feeling about the marriage?” His voice is softer as he speaks this time. “I mean how do you really feel, not the answer they make you rehearse in etiquette class.”

His request for candor makes you smile. “I don’t quite know, yet. You know, as a young girl, they tell you stories about the glamor of finding a husband and getting married. But I’m not quite sure what to expect anymore.”

“Are you saying I’m not glamorous enough for you, princess?”

You can’t help but giggle as the man places his cheeks in his palms, fluttering his eyelashes repeatedly. There’s something in the tilt of his head and the fanning of his eyelashes that truly is glamorous, but you fear the result of telling him so. Instead, you just roll your eyes playfully. 

“You know what I mean.”

Jaehyun smiles, finally dropping his pose in favor of leaning back against the railing. “I do. But in all fairness, we have only known each other for mere hours. If you give me the chance, I promise I will try to make this life glamorous for you.”

You return his smile, trying not to stare too hard at the way the sun highlights his Cupid’s bow. “I’d expect nothing less.”

.          .          .

Wedding preparations are more strenuous than you could have ever imagined. Dress fittings and pastry tastings prove to be tiresome, while ballroom dance lessons leave your feet sore and aching. You spend hours per day learning about Nexdorian customs and ceremonial practices, all with the expectation of having them memorized in less than two months. 

As exhausting as it is, having Jaehyun by your side makes everything a little easier. 

You grow accustomed to the way he whispers jokes under his breath when the history teacher drones on and on about traditional wedding practices. He busts silly dance moves and makes funny faces during ballroom class, stopping at nothing to simply make you laugh. Everything he does in your presence proves to be for the sake of making you comfortable. 

You hate to admit that it works like a charm, making you smile even when you’re feeling extra homesick. Just thinking about his soft jokes and melodious laugh is enough to bring heat to your cheeks. It’s odd to acknowledge that Jaehyun is simply perfect, and he’s about to be yours. He works hard to prove himself to you everyday, as if his devotion to making you comfortable can be substituted for the lack of love. 

Maybe you can mistake it as such.

When Jaehyun knocks on your door with a picnic basket and a blanket in hand, it’s easy to mistake it as love. When he leads you out to a meadow dotted with purple and yellow flowers with a hand on your waist, it’s easy to mistake it as love. When he tucks a vibrant purple blossom behind your ear, it’s easy to mistake it as love. 

Even now, as soft winds ruffle Jaehyun’s curls as he tilts his head back, facing the sun, you wonder if this could be love. He looks extremely serene with his eyes closed and dimpled cheeks, a soft smile permanently gracing his face. You don’t think you’ve seen him frown once since you have moved into the palace, the man always wide eyed and positive down to his core. 

“You know,” Jaehyun starts, eyes still closed. “You do a lot of staring at me.”

Instantly, you avert your eyes, fighting the heat rising to your cheeks. “Consider it payback for how much you stare at me.”

Jaehyun opens his eyes, shooting you a small smirk. “Well, can you blame me? You’re gorgeous.”

“And you’re quite the flatterer.”

“I hardly think it’s a crime to compliment my fiancé.”

For some reason, the word makes you cringe, harshly gripping the picnic blanket underneath your fingers. It’s hardly the first time you’ve heard him refer to you as such, but it always leaves a stale taste in your mouth. 

“Does it not bother you?” You question. “The fact that we are set to be wed and we have only known each other for mere months?”

Jaehyun sighs. “I think the strength of a connection cannot be determined by the time spent together, don’t you?”

The implication has your heart pounding in your chest. “Are you saying that we have a strong connection?”

For a moment, there is mere silence, only interrupted by the soft rustle of leaves in the wind. Jaehyun seems calm as he begins to lean forward, only stopping mere inches from your face. The close proximity has your breath stuttering in your chest, still not used to Jaehyun’s confidence in displays of affection. 

“I feel it,” Jaehyun murmurs softly, eyes momentarily flicking down to your lips. They return to your eyes just as quickly. “Don’t you?”

A flutter runs through your core as Jaehyun’s tongue darts out to run across his bottom lip. 

“I-I do,” you whisper, breath stuck in your throat. 

With a bright smile, Jaehyun pulls away, forcing you to come back to your senses. 

“Good,” he beams. “Now let’s eat.”

It’s almost as if the man can sense his effect on you, constantly meeting you with fleeting touches and secretive grins in the coming days. After the picnic, he makes a point to surprise you with a random wildflower each day, always tucking it behind your ear as if leaving a garnish on an exquisite dish. His fingers will lightly trace your jaw as they retreat, leaving a path of flames in his wake. 

His touch emboldens you, allowing you to reciprocate his affections bit by bit. As the days pass, you begin to lean into the hands that guide you by the waist. You joke alongside him, feeling free to put on your silliest face and tell your cringiest jokes. 

It begins to feel like a relationship, one that goes beyond the simple pressures of royal duty. Smiles begin to turn purposeful instead of secretive. Knowing glances are exchanged as you both seek each other out in a crowded room. Pulses go from racing at the first glimpse of each other to mellowing out when the other finally makes an appearance. 

In a month’s time, you will be married to Crown Prince Myung Jaehyun. And for the first time in a long time, you start to believe that maybe love will make an appearance at your wedding after all. 

.         .         .

The days when Jaehyun leaves you by your lonesome prove to be the hardest. You understand, of course. He is the Crown Prince with a plethora of obligations to his Kingdom, unable to solely sit back and prepare for the wedding like you do. Ruling comes first, always, even before being a fiancé. 

It’s a particularly gloomy day when an aid informs you that Jaehyun will be in political meetings all day to address a recent conflict at the northern border. With soft rain pelting the windows, you have no other option than to explore the palace. 

Polished wood squeaks under the weight of your slippers as you roam the seemingly endless halls. Every room that you pass seems to serve a different purpose, some being bedrooms while others are studies. You even find yourself in a room lined with portraits of past rulers and their families, each one telling a little bit of the history of Nexdor. Adjacent to the portrait of King Jaeseong and his family lies an empty space, just waiting for the portrait of Jaehyun and his family to fill it. You cringe at the thought of your face permanently plastered here for any wandering eye to see. 

Further down the hall from the portrait room seems to be a series of meeting rooms, each one with a different set up. As you venture down the hall, a half opened door piques your interest. But just as you move to push the door open, a frustrated groan stops you in your tracks. 

“I promise you, Father. I’m not losing focus.” There’s a frustrated edge to Jaehyun’s voice that you have never experienced before. “I know what I need to do to rule my country.”

“Clearly, you don’t!” King Jaeseong booms. “Instead of attending to your duties at Crown Prince, you are too worried about caring for the princess. You cannot let petty feelings get in the way of you ruling this kingdom to the best of your ability.”

“Feelings?” Jaehyun scoffs. “This marriage is purely political, you know that just as well as I do. I don’t even care for her. She is simply set to be my wife for our kingdom’s gain, and that is it.”

Despite King Jaeseong’s reply, the words seem to echo throughout the empty hallway, setting off a ringing in your ears. 

You release a shaky sigh, feeling your heart plummet to the pit of your core. The corners of your eyes begin to sting with the force of incoming tears, forcing you to blink rapidly to keep them at bay. It’s impossible to tune into the rest of the conversation, your mind having shut down after hearing Jaehyun’s comment. With no other choice, you flee back down the hallway, seeking nothing more than the solace of your room. 

What feels like hours pass as you simply stare up at your ceiling, letting your emotions ebb and flow like waves against the shore. As devastated as you are, you can’t help but be upset with yourself more than anything. Jaehyun was right, after all. The marriage is simply political. There is no place for feelings in ruling a kingdom, the fairy tales you were told as a kid being nothing more than just that, tales. 

Yet another part of you aches at the thought of Jaehyun viewing you as a political move. All the jokes and smiles were nothing more than what would be displayed at a public hearing. The fleeting touches and the brushes of fingers against bare skin existed simply to placate a political tide. What has begun to feel like more has been reduced to a political pawn game. 

Your chances at being in love had been squashed. 

So, you began to reciprocate. Gone were the giggles when Jaehyun cracked a joke in history class. Attempts at getting sidetracked during ballroom dance lessons were met with a blank stare. Picnic requests were denied and touches dodged. After all, there are no feelings involved in politics. 

It seems like the change takes a while for Jaehyun to register, meeting your blank stares with concerned gazes and questioning looks. His fingers halt in midair when you flinch away from his touch, clearly still hoping to grasp onto you. Dimpled smiles turn into exaggerated pouts when you deny him time and time again. You would find his reactions cute, if not for the reason this is all happening. 

It’s all political, you remind yourself. 

It isn’t until a few days before the wedding that Jaehyun seems to have had enough. He corners you after a particularly grueling ballroom practice, grabbing you by the hand. His grip is tight enough that you aren’t able to pull away, helplessly following along as he drags you through the palace corridors. 

The two of you end up in the portrait room, with the eyes of all of the past rulers staring down at you. It’s only when you come to a stop that Jaehyun releases his grip from your hand. The man is clearly irritated, cheeks ruddy and eyes glassy. If you didn’t know any better, you would think he had been crying. 

“What is going on?” 

You fight the urge to roll your eyes. “I have no idea what you mean.”

“Our wedding is in a few days and you have been ignoring me!” Jaehyun sighs, running a hand through his hair. “I just want to know what happened. I thought…I thought—,”

“You thought what?”

“I thought that you were learning to love me! I thought that you were beginning to feel the same way.”

Jaehyun’s exasperation rings loud in the otherwise silent room. His chest heaves with the force of his words, fingers twitching as they seek something to grasp. You can’t help but scoff at his demeanor. 

“Feel the same way? You were the one who said that I’m only going to be your wife for the kingdom’s political gain!” A hot feeling begins to bloom in your chest as you remember the encounter. “I believe your exact words were, ‘I don’t even care for her.’”

Jaehyun’s face falls, eyes glossy. “You heard that?”

“Of course I did,” you mumble, crossing your arms over your chest. “I was walking around the palace and I heard you meeting with your father.”

“You don’t—I meant—just…I promise it’s not what you think!”

“I heard you loud and clear, Jaehyun. You can’t take back your words now.”

“I know, but I promise I didn’t mean that.” Jaehyun sighs. “Can you follow me for a second? Please, I just need to show you something.”

Jaehyun’s hand is shaking as he offers it to you, reaching out with his last shred of hope. His eyes bore holes into you, as if looking at you can keep his tears at bay. It takes a few moments of staring at the hand, taking in its subtle tremor, before you finally exhale, letting your palm meet his. The smile that he shoots you is blinding, forcing you to look away from its power. 

You struggle to keep up as Jaehyun practically runs down the hallways, hair flapping in the wind. It reminds you of a puppy, how overeager he is, and you imagine that if he had a tail, it would be fiercely wagging. Every so often, he looks back, shooting you a smile that has a stampede running through your abdomen. 

With the speed that you two are moving at, you seem to arrive at your destination in no time. Jaehyun’s panting as he leads you to a final door, sunlight flooding your vision as he pushes it open. Trekking down a pair of outdoor steps leaves you along the eastern palace wall, the once empty space now a sight that makes your jaw drop. 

Numerous flower beds and bushes form a maze along the rich soil, some of them still only budding. Even though many of the flowers are not yet in full bloom, it’s easy to tell what they will be. A specific set of hot pink buds on a nearby bush steals your breath away. 

You release Jaehyun’s hand as you walk deeper into the garden, squatting in front of the bush to see if your eyes are deceiving you. It’s hard to be sure as you squint, but when a breeze blows, flooding your senses with an all too familiar fragrance, there’s no mistaking it for anything else. 

“Azaleas?” You breathe. “But how? They don’t grow here. The closest azaleas are in—,”

“Vyrona,” Jaehyun interrupts. “The closest azaleas are a few hundred miles away, but I had some staff travel to uproot some to bring here.”

You’re frozen in place as Jaehyun approaches, utterly breathless. “But why?”

“Because you said they were your favorite.”

As Jaehyun closes the gap between you two, you find yourself blinking back tears. This time, when he attempts to gather your hands in his, you let him, not daring to put up a fight. Slowly, he brings your left hand to his lips, placing a soft kiss on your knuckles before repeating the move with your right hand. 

“Y/N, I wasn’t lying when I said I felt a connection between us. From the day I first saw you, I knew I would do anything for you, and I still will.” Jaehyun lets out a wet chuckle. “You know, if we weren’t already set to be wed I would have proposed to you again, right here in this spot. That’s how much I want to be with you.”

You shake your head, fighting a grimace. “But, your father…”

“I only said what I had to in order to appease him. He is nervous that I’m losing focus of my duties and losing sight of what I need to do for the kingdom. And honestly, he’s right. Because these days, all I can think about is you.”

The feeling is undoubtedly reciprocated, but the words to tell him such remain caught in your throat. All you are able to muster is a questioning hum. 

“You’re constantly on my mind to the point where I feel like a fool. I can’t seem to stop talking about you to anyone who might listen, my father included. Honestly, I have never experienced love before, princess. But to the extent I do, I want to experience it with you.”

You swallow the lump in your throat, trying your best not to get lost in the reflection of you in Jaehyun’s eyes. “I want to experience it with you, too.”

Dimples indent Jaehyun’s cheeks as a relieved smile crosses his face. He uses his grip on your hands to pull you even closer, causing you to stumble into his chest. Both of your hands fall to his chest to stabilize yourself, while his own fall to your waist. This close, you can see the soft shadows that his eyelashes cast on his cheeks and the sharp swell of his Cupid’s bow.

You find yourself thinking the same thing that you thought when you first saw the Prince. He is breathtaking. 

“Jaehyun…” you trail off, watching the way his tongue darts out to trace his bottom lip. 

“Will you let me love you, princess?”

A small nod is all you’re able to get out before a soft pair of lips meet yours. 

Jaehyun kisses the way you would imagine a young prince would, unrestrained and confident. He takes the lead in letting his lips blanket yours, grip tightening around your waist as he draws you in for more. It’s addicting, the way he strikes a balance between giving and taking that leaves you panting when you both pull away. 

“Let’s get married,” Jaehyun breathes out, letting his forehead rest on yours. 

You can’t fight the giggle that bubbles up in your chest. “We already are next week.”

“Oh, right.”

At his sheepish tone, you can’t help but laugh fully, throwing your head back in an unrestrained fit of giggles. The sight proves contagious, as Jaehyun’s laughs begin to harmonize with yours. It’s an addicting sensation, to hear the laughs of your fiancé while the fragrance of your favorite flower fills your nose. 

“Jaehyun,” you whisper after you are able to tame your fit of giggles. “Thanks for making this all feel a little more glamorous.”

Jaehyun just smiles, giving your waist a light squeeze. “You don’t have to thank me. I promise that I’ll do whatever I can to make each day feel more glamorous than the last.”

You nod, feeling the sun warm your lips as you smile softly. 

“I’d expect nothing less.”

.FIN.

[getobitchs]

What You Took From Me - R. S.

✧.* content warning : angst, fluff ig?

✧.* w/c : 1.07k

✧.* n/a : nothin

✧.* tagline : @sugurus-thoughts ; (text me to be on the next tagline)

₊ ⊹🪻 ✧ ˚i

The Heian era was a time of elegance and tradition, where the beauty of the cherry blossoms mirrored the fleeting moments of happiness that mortals clung to. For you, life had once been simple, your days spent tending to the small garden by your family’s home, your nights bathed in the soft glow of moonlight. Until him.

Sukuna.

You had met him by chance — or so you had believed. A man of devastating beauty and an aura that sent chills down your spine, he was both terrifying and magnetic. Sukuna wasn’t just a man; he was a force of nature. A god among mortals, cloaked in an ever-present air of danger and power.

Yet, despite the fear he inspired, he had chosen you. Out of all the women in the land, it was you who had caught his eye. And in an act of defiance against both his nature and the world that feared him, he had married you.

At first, you had been afraid, unsure of his intentions. But Sukuna — when he wasn’t reigning over curses or instilling fear — had been a surprisingly gentle husband. He brought you rare flowers, sat beside you while you worked in the garden, and listened as you spoke of your dreams and fears. He wasn’t one to smile often, but when he did, it was like the sun breaking through a storm.

You fell in love with him, despite the warnings whispered by the wind and the shadowy aura that clung to him like a second skin. And for a time, you were happy.

But time was unkind to mortals.

Your health began to wane, your once-strong body betraying you as the years passed. You tried to hide it, to keep the growing weakness in your limbs and the ache in your chest a secret, but Sukuna knew. He always knew.

He watched helplessly as you grew weaker, his frustration manifesting in the crackle of his cursed energy. He could destroy entire villages, topple kingdoms, and command legions of curses, but he couldn’t stop the inevitable march of time. He couldn’t save you.

You died one spring morning, the scent of cherry blossoms heavy in the air. Sukuna had held you in his arms as you took your last breath, his four crimson eyes fixed on your face as though he could will you back to life.

“I’ll find you,” he had murmured, his voice breaking in a way you had never heard before. “No matter where you go, I’ll find you again.”

And then you were gone.

Centuries passed.

For years after your death, Sukuna clung to his memories of you, reliving every fleeting moment of happiness he had shared with you. He tried to forget, to bury your image beneath the blood and chaos of his reign, but no matter how much he destroyed, no matter how many lives he claimed, your face always lingered in the corners of his mind.

When he was eventually sealed, he welcomed the silence. If the world had nothing left to offer him, perhaps oblivion was the only answer.

But fate is cruel, and the threads of destiny are never truly severed.

In 2018, Sukuna awakened, dragged back into the world through forbidden sorcery. It was a strange new time, filled with loud machines, flashing lights, and a world that had forgotten his name. He should have reveled in the opportunity to spread fear and reclaim his throne, yet his mind was elsewhere.

The centuries had dulled nothing. He still thought of you. Your laughter, your touch, the way you had looked at him as though he weren’t a monster. He had lost you once, and the thought of living without you again filled him with an ache he couldn’t name.

Then, one ordinary evening, he saw you.

You were standing outside a café, bathed in the soft glow of a neon sign, your laughter carrying over the hum of the city. Time seemed to freeze. Sukuna’s crimson eyes locked onto you, his heart — something he had long believed dead — thudding painfully in his chest.

It was you.

You looked different, your modern clothes and styled hair unfamiliar, but there was no mistaking you. The shape of your smile, the way you tilted your head as you laughed — it was the same as it had been centuries ago.

For a moment, he could only stand there, staring. He had spent so long believing he would never see you again that the sight of you now felt like a dream.

You didn’t notice him at first, engrossed in your conversation with a friend. But then your eyes flickered toward him, and the world shifted.

You froze, your laughter dying in your throat as your gaze met his. There was no recognition in your eyes, but something passed between you — a spark, a faint pull that made your heart stutter.

Sukuna crossed the street without hesitation, his movements as smooth and predatory as they had been in the Heian era. He stopped in front of you, towering over you, his presence commanding your full attention.

“Can I help you?” you asked, your voice polite but wary.

His gaze softened as he took you in, his crimson eyes scanning your face for any hint of familiarity. “Do you believe in fate?” he asked, his voice low and resonant.

You blinked, startled by the question. “I… I guess?”

His lips curled into a smirk, though it lacked the malice it usually carried. “You should.”

Your friend nudged you, murmuring something about him being strange, but you didn’t move. There was something about him that felt… familiar.

“Have we met before?” you asked, your voice hesitant.

His smirk faltered for just a moment, replaced by something more vulnerable. “In another life, perhaps.”

You didn’t understand what he meant, but there was something in his gaze that made your chest ache, a strange and inexplicable feeling of loss and longing.

Sukuna didn’t press further. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to frighten you or risk losing you again. But as he turned to leave, he glanced over his shoulder. “We’ll meet again,” he said, echoing the promise you had made to him centuries ago.

You stood there, watching him disappear into the crowd, your heart heavy with an emotion you couldn’t name.

And for the first time in centuries, Sukuna felt hope.