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novaursa · 9 days

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Valyrian Bride (Final Chapter)

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

- Paring: velaryon!reader/Cregan Stark

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

- Previous part: continuation

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cregan raised a brow. “Comforting.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I already am.”

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

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

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

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

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

She only laughed harder.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She smirked. “You’re smiling.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And despite himself, he was beginning to enjoy it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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annwrites · 2 months

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sons & daughters. part nine.

— pairing: cregan stark x fem!reader

— type: part of a series

— summary: and here, in gyldayn’s fire & blood, we find the end of our story through his historical accounting.

— word count: 1,351

— a/n: I hope not too many find this to be an unusual way for me to have ended this fic, but I honestly got the idea to write it like this a couple chapters ago & it just seems fitting.

— tagging list: @beebeechaos @crypticlxrsh @amindfullofmonsters @yeolsbubbles @icefrye19

It is equally agreed upon by Orwyle and Mushroom, that the union between Lord Cregan and his Velaryon wife, the Princess Y/N, was a joyous one, which bore much fruit.

The Princess gave him a dozen children, which included two sets of twins, which had been considered unsurprising by Grand Maester Orwyle in his writings, surmising it was “of much sense”, with the kindly young woman having been a twin herself.

Mushroom’s far-fetched (all his reports of going-ons within the North should be seen as such, as the dwarf had never so much as seen snowfall) claims, in his Testimony, of at least one of the children having been fathered upon the Lady of Winterfell by an unnamed northman during Cregan’s long absence in the capitol, is believed by none but he.

Even Septon Eustace, who had lambasted the dragon and wolf’s union—remarking that, perhaps Lord Cregan (though there is no record of her) had indeed had a bastard half-sister, which the Prince Jacaerys dishonored after all. In turn, the “savage northern lord” did the same to the innocent Princess in retribution.

He had surmised it was the only way matrimony would have been consented upon by her mother, the Queen Rhaenyra—a follower of the Seven. She would not have “freely handed over” her only beloved daughter to a “beast of the North” when other, more fitting prospects were to be had.

The deaths of what remained of her family over those two bloody years during the Dying of the Dragons had, initially, per Eustace, weakened what must have been left of her resolve after her “blasphemous” (Eustace states that Lord Cregan manipulated the young Princess into abandoning the Seven for instead worshipping his “trees”, which the Septon took as a great offense to the Faith) marriage to the “uncivilized” wolf.

It was recounted that when she received word of the Prince Jacaerys’ death at sea, she collapsed in her husband’s arms and refused to speak or eat for nigh on a fortnight, instead wandering aimlessly through Winterfell’s halls at odd hours, crying and searching for something which she could not name.

The only ones she would allow into her company then was her husband, step-son, and handmaiden. It was purportedly only for the well-being of her unborn child that she finally accepted nourishment, for she had grown frail and thin during her period of mourning.

The Princess’ melancholy lessened as she bore her Lord Husband further children, devoting herself wholly to her growing family, but her tears quickly turned to joy when news of her mother taking King’s Landing reached the snowy winds of the North.

“At last, mayhaps this bloody war will finally cease and peace can be had!” it was purported she had stated with glee, even if her Lord Husband had not been so quick to joy.

And of the two, it was Lord Stark who had been proven right in his hesitancy.

Some time later, when her great-uncle, the Prince Daemon, and uncle Aemond slew each other over the Gods Eye, Munkun states in True Telling when her husband came to her with news of the bloody battle, she had remained quiet for but a moment before raising her cup and stating “I say well done!”.

It it unknown to which uncle she spoke of, if not both, as she did not seem to much care for her step-father Daemon.

Aemond had been a different story, as the two had been fond of one another as children.

Mushroom had postulated that Daemon was, perhaps, instead Prince Aemond’s true father, as he not only “shared” certain physical characteristics with him, but a lust for “an innocent young maid which shared his blood”, as well.

He’d taken the story a step further by claiming that the reason for Rhaenyra’s swift departure from the Red Keep that same night King Viserys passed, was due to finding the Prince and Princess abed with one another, and that her marriage to the Lord Cregan was to cover up the birth of yet one more “stain” upon an already troubled family—as the eager young northman would have been “none the wiser” if the babe’s hair was silver or brown, so long as his “supple young wife” was submissive and comely enough, as she did not seem to have a dragon’s disposition.

Elation did not last long, however, when her Queen mother was inevitably overthrown and last remaining brother through Ser Laenor Velaryon (or Ser Harwin Strong, if Mushroom’s Testimony is to be believed), Joffrey, died in the streets of King’s Landing.

The Princess it is said, gathered all her children to her and her Lord Husband’s bed that night, and held them close to her as she wept, Lord Cregan comforting her all the while.

And when her mother died by dragonfire, the Princess stared quietly at her Lord Husband before telling him, as she cried, that her “heart could take no more”, that if further deaths came to pass “she wished not to hear of it—not anymore”.

He had agreed easily, having such disdain for seeing her in such poor spirits yet once more, and in such short a time since the last occurrence.

Motherhood, Orwyle wrote, seemed to be of the best role to suit her. And so, when Lord Cregan marched off to war, mother she became, to the whole of the North.

As is known, Lord Cregan’s further contributions to the Dance did not manifest until 131 AC, when he gathered an army of anywhere between eight-thousand (per Mukun’s True Telling) to twenty-thousand men (per Eustace) to march on King’s Landing after the regicide of King Aegon II, to force what Greens remained to the sword.

In his absence, his wife, Princess Y/N, took up the torch in leading what was now their people, even despite being heavily pregnant with their fourth child (meaning she would have already been carrying before her Lord Husband set off to the South, so Mushroom’s bawdy tales are no more than “folly”, so wrote Munkun in True Telling).

There was no time left for grieving and tears as she took over her Lord Husband’s responsibilities in his absence.

It was when Princess Y/N overheard Lord Cregan’s advisors in the hall, questioning who would see to the appointments which the men he had taken with him left to be filled that she emerged from her chambers (according to Mushroom “dressed in no more than furs”) and told them shortly “I will.”, and that “I am your Lady and acting in my husband’s stead, and will be treated with the same respects you afforded him. Elsewise, your positions, too, will need be sought to.”.

Munkun thus disagrees with Mushroom’s characterizing the young Princess as being timid and “submissive” to the whims of her (“overbearing”, per Eustace) husband. And instead as much a statesman as he when the time finally called for such attitudes.

After nearly a year apart, when her Lord Husband returned to her, after much bloodshed and “heedless violence”, as Eustace referred to the executions which took place in the capitol as Lord Cregan saw to the last remaining Greens, it was to the new son she had bore him and the Princess “running into his arms, and pleading with him to take her there in the yard, for she could not stand to be without him a moment longer”, Mushroom recounts in Testimony.

Munkun tells us, however, that as much is for certain as this: Lord Cregan and his Lady Wife spent their remaining days side-by-side, surrounded by their children and grandchildren, content as they had wondered if they would one day be.

The Princess passed peacefully in her sleep during an undetermined year, and Lord Cregan followed shortly after. His heir, Rickon, had, without second-thought, honored his Lord father’s wishes to have them each entombed in the crypts of Winterfell, in the manner Lord Cregan had specified: “The two of us shall be in death as we were in life—ever-together. Place us by one another’s sides, for I shall not rest, if we are parted, as she was my peace.”.

#fic: hotd (cregan stark x reader)#cregan stark x y/n #cregan stark x you #cregan stark x oc #cregan stark imagine #cregan stark x reader #hotd x y/n #hotd x oc #hotd imagine #hotd x reader

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achromant · 7 months

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AND HERE WE ARE! My project for the gw2 'zine!

Featuring Baruhn, reflecting on his life so far, the challenges, the small sparks of joy, the horrors, loss and gain.

For clarification's sake; I did in fact plan to depict every stage of Baruhn's life, but uuh. File was already too big.

Might do a series of short comics (graphic novels?) though, because i fking love storytelling.

Let's look at my idiotic level of detail a bit, eh?

[Long Text Ahead]

Baruhn's story begins in the Plains of Ashford. An unsuccessful attempt to stem the tide of Ascalonian Ghosts leads to the demise of many year-long allies. Dozens of brave soldiers gave their life for a mere week of peace until the ghosts reformed. They always do. Soldiers don't.

Shaken in his faith in the Legions, the first seeds of doubt arise.

Until finally he found someone to trust with his pain. In a tavern at the edge of the Black Citadel, he gets to know this odd fellow, who is continuosly follow by the faint smell of sulfur. Although Baruhn knew where that path led, the warmth radiating from the old veteran in front of him was not only a physical, but an emotional one.

With the Three Legions busy with their internal quarrels, fighting over an empty promise, Baruhn took the first steps down a previously thought to be dark path.

Surprisingly, die Flame Legion was welcoming, their fires offered light and guidance, the embers igniting the skies like stars. Surely this was better than the cold metal over the Black Citadel.

Baruhn took to learning first, handling the small flames with ease after years of throwing fireballs at ghostly shapes. Then, he figured out how to teach, and that is where the real magic comes from. Nurturing a flame, protecting it from harsh winds, adding a bit of kindling and coal here and there. He even taught the more elusive ways of magic that wield smoke and ash.

Baruhn knew about the war, the countless lifes lost on the other side of the fence. But those were humans, and here he was among family.

That is, until he met Molly.

After a small recon mission that was assured not to be much of a hurdle, Baruhn found himself alone in a forest. The small fires he conjured for light and warmth only drew in the nearby villagers. Those with pitchforks and torches, with crude swords and a thirst for blood. He couldn't really bring himself to hate them, this was war after all. But at what cost are these battles to be won?

Trying to escape the villagers was a futile attempt. He sank to the ground, his own hot blood dousing the little flames beneath his weary head.

For some reason - maybe hope, maybe resignation - he forced open his heavy eyes, only to discover his wounds cleaned and bandaged with fragile white cloth. A small human girl, of all things in this damned forest, tried to help. Even in his weakened state, even with just one hand, Baruhn could have easily grabbed her and cracked her skull. But the only thing he did was listen. He listened to the ramblings of the small human, going on and on about faries made of leaves and gnomes of stone. She called him "bear".

When the villagers came, they saw the girl at his side. That was all it took for them to turn on her. She was to be executed like that beast that now slowly stepped in front of her. For the first time, Baruhn spoke to the girl. "close your eyes."

Fire roared, not red, not orange. not a warm, welcoming fire. Not one that belongs in a hearth, that thrives in the arms of a family. This was so much worse. This was years of inner conflict, of doubt, of closing his eyes on the other side of the fence. For the first time in his life, this was the only thing that he wanted to do, protect the little insignificant human behind him. Fire roared, and it burned wood and it burned flesh.

Baruhn picked up the little girl, she held tight to his horns, nestled in his mane. He ran for hours, years of military training finally useful. The little girl, Molly, lost her mother years ago. She burned in the fires of a war she tried to escape. "And your father? What about your family?", he asked between deep breaths. Molly was quiet for a while, then whispered, her voice barely audible, "My father burned today."

They stayed together, for quite a while. He protected her, and she, with her head full of stories, and a book full of dreams, protected him.

Things came, things went. Baruhn rejoined the High Legions, acting as a spy for Ash, keeping an eye on Iron and Blood.

Baruhn ultimately took on his role as Novice, then Archivist, then Commander. He helped during the struggles against Scarlet. A small flame here and there, some shrouding smoke, a well timed lightning strike. It was other people that finally defeated Scarlet, but he was always in the background, with all the small things at just the right time.

Mordremoth came, but with him new allies.

It was but a small tangent in the grand scheme of things. Watching the fragile sapling while waging war on the jungle itself.

Their relation was something more than friendship, something else than love. They were there for each other when they needed to be. Be it only to keep a flame burning or to banish the voices to the back of the head again, they walked the same path for a long time.

Tarir, the Egg. Aurene. A new flame entrusted to him, his to nurture, his to raise. A gamble, again. What if that little flame would some day devour the world? But Baruhn did, what he could do best. Teach.

Darker times came. Caudecus and the White Mantle. The raid on the Mursaat's prison. Then facing the last Mursaat himself.

Balthazar came, and in his wake a new kind of fire. A war, similar to the ones Baruhn had seen before, but still different. A war without a cause, war for war's sake. War against nature, against the world, like a child lashing out when there were none to help them up. Maybe Balthazar's flames were not too different from his.

After the festering swamp that Joko was, came the mountain, Kralkatorrik. Death was not a hindrance anymore, not for the Commander and his dragon. The story went as the story goes.

When it came to face the frost, the whispers, Jormag. Everything fell apart. Jormag pried into the deepest, darkest corners of Baruhn's life, dragged every doubt, small as it may have been, into the light. In the ice, every truth was warped, encased in whispers, in lies. It suffocated any hope and planted even darker seeds than anyone thought possible.

It was the spirit of the Raven that aided Baruhn. Even the black feathers of its wings were shimmering like rainbows in the moonlight.

A small piece stayed with him, just a fragment. Nevermore.

After that, the stars themselves. Astralaria.

So many stories that make a life, so many pieces. Every encounter, every step along the way is another fragment of the whole. People are made of other people, that is what it means to be alive.

#gw2 #guild wars 2 #charr #bit of a long read but nonetheless #thanks for reading <3 #furry art

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thewriterg · 11 months

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𝐛𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐛𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐝

pairing(s); jake sully x fem!navi!reader, neytiri tskaha mo'at'ite x fem!navi!reader

summary; it was a mistake they didn’t mean for it to happen at least not without you —angstober day; 20—

word count; 650+

warning(s); angst, death of an animal, and language

A/n:—GIFs; @helicarrier— I can’t believe its already the 20th

“Ma Y/n! Yawne wait” Neytiri called out to you as you climbed down from the spirit tree your tail that was once filled with with a passionate sway now lies limp behind you the grass and leaves crunching after you tears blurring your doe eyes with a frown etched deep on your face your feet carrying you somewhere they the weren’t

Somewhere you could be free

Before you know it there’s a restraint on your thin deep blue cauda and you turned to face Jake his five fingered hand wrapped around its end your hand inches way above his at the base and a hiss resting against your lips the sky walker put his hands up in surrender taking a small steps to approach you like a wild animal deep in the forest

“I trusted you, I trusted you!” Sniffling erupted your speech now and both of them fought the urge to look away from your hurt features ears falling flat against the temples of their navy skin warm tears running down Neytiris face

“Trust us now” Jake pleaded his voice calm and settled while yours was scratchy and rubbed raw shaking your head in denial turning down the deal without giving it a thought because you truly didn’t need to

“I should not put my faith into a occupied pair… who are mated before Eywa” You whispered and the na’vi whimpered at the cold words tumbling out your mouth as you turn your back to face the trees accepting their embrace a slight wind rustling through the branches and when you went to move forward you heard movement from behind

“Do not follow me, I hope you can respect that much” You murmured before walking deep off into the forest before Jake holds Neytiri in his lanky, slim, hold her tears falling off her face and onto his bare chest broken promises to get you back to them promises he knew he might not have been able to keep

It was a heart of the moment situation even though it shouldn’t have been especially after restless nights of studying for you to be together… for you to all be bonded together and you were close the na’vis cursed at themselves because god you were close, so goddamn close

But they had formed their own kuru and it was a done deal

The two were heading back to the village a slow drag in their steps when they heard a scream, your scream. You were one of the best warriors in the village and usually called out with a chur and whistle for battle this time it was a scream that shook the leaves and echoed off the face of the forest Neytiri was faster than Jake moving through the forest with ease and determination while the sky walker set a decent pace behind her and it felt like forever until the came to a stop your back was still faced towards them your shoulders hunched and your bow lying beside you

The pair took careful steps to you and Jake finally saw your irkran lied out against the floor it’s eyes wide and open yet lifeless as you sobbed hand rubbing over its snout a hand over her stomach and Neytitri dropped next you an arm draping over your shoulder frowning heaving at the sight while you screamed in agony

“She waited too many breeding cycles to have the calf, the clan was so happy for her” You sniffled rubbing a hand over her plump stomach and Jake finally settled on his knees next to you putting his forehead against yours and it was soothing for a while until you finally shot up flinging their limbs off you

“What is this great mother, WHAT IS THIS!?” Your screaming was your most sacred possession Ewya granted you the gift herself

Oh my gosh a cliffhanger 🙀

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tsukiakurotori · 3 months

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Character Intro

Hello. So, I have decided I would venture into the FFXIV side of things after a break from it due to some irl stuff. Tsukia's story has changed much from when she first came into being, but I'm excited to see where this new direction takes her as I reclaim this beloved character. And I want to share it with any who care to join me in the slow, lengthy adventure. 😊

Without further ado, allow me to introduce you to the unsuspecting tiny dragon who went from searching for her sister to stepping into her fallen sister's shoes as the Warrior of Light.

(❗Trigger warning: mention of suicide and assault)

"I was given this power to protect and to heal. The elementals entrusted it to me. They put their faith in me. I will not let down that faith."

Age: 24 (as of the start of HW)

Height: 5'0"

Pronouns: She/Her

Nameday: 8th Sun of the 6th Astral Moon

Guardian: Menphina

Laughing, bright, wise, empathetic, confident, and powerful. A young Raen Au Ra, Tsukia was born into an old family with a long tradition of being master Ninjas. However, Tsukia eventually grew to realize this was not the path she wanted, though both she and her sister were highly skilled. Both of them wanted something else. Much to the ire of their strict father.

After a traumatic event, Tsukia chose to become a Conjurer in order to protect and heal others, and then later a White Mage under the guidance of the elementals, who took a liking to her. They know she is not the type who would abuse such power, hence why they allow her to have it. She had great potential, becoming extremely powerful, though she prefers to use her strength to heal and protect. But make no mistake. If you try and harm those she loves, she will not hold back.

This event also led to her elder sister (Seiren) leaving their clan behind, casting aside who she was, for it was Tsukia's sister who killed the man who had assaulted Tsukia, a man Seiren had once considered a friend. She took up the lance rather than being a Ninja, the path she chose as Tsukia did hers. Even if it was for her little sister's sake, Seiren could not stay. They did not know what came of her after. Until the day Tsukia began to look for her.

She’d finally been able to gain approval to venture out of the clan and so went in search of her sister, only to find that Seiren took her life by walking into the waters of Costa del Sol and never emerging, leaving only her worn lance behind.

So ended one story...while another shall begin.

“Where do you wanna go? How much do you want to risk?” Her smile was dazzling as her eyes shone, still swirling with the aether she'd called upon.

(Some explanation below, with slight spoilers)

Side notes: Her sister was the WoL during the Calamity and who returned during ARR, without her memories of the battle, inadvertently assuming the mantle once more. She fell in love with Foulques, saving him from death and helping him turn his life around. However, he was lost to her during Operation Archon, as he fought alongside the Twin Adders at the cost of his life. This sent her into a dark spiral, leading to her death before the commencement of Heavensward. By some twist of fate, it is Tsukia who ends up bearing her sister's mantle from there on.

Other OCs:

Liena Eryssel

Safianne Sahain

(I will say that, though I do not have much practice in it, I would be open to attempting some RP. I am a beginner at RP compared to writing, but my two Elezen OCs have some leeway that makes it possible. So, I just wanted to put this out here. After all, it might be nice to try new things occasionally.😊💕)

#ffxiv #ffxiv oc #au ra #character lore #ffxiv fanfiction #ffxiv wol #ffxiv au ra

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spartanguard · 1 year

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sons of love and death, 7/13 {CSSNS 23}

Summary: After the Final Battle, Killian Jones had finally settled into his happily ever after with his wife and family. Until a new foe arrived in Storybrooke: the infamous Dorian Gray, who looks rather familiar—one might say identical—to the pirate, and he’s on a mission: to claim the powers of the Dark One for himself. There’s only one problem: the Dark One no longer exists. What follows is a journey of vengeance, revelations, magic, and finally facing down the darkness within himself that Killian thought he’d finally put to rest. [roughly canon divergent from 5B, though set post-canon] A/N: Greetings from band camp! But that won't stop me from updating my @cssns story! Hope everyone is having a great week! (As always, thanks to the best beta, @optomisticgirl !) rated M | 5.1k words | AO3 | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6

Dorian hadn’t been seen since his encounter with Regina the previous morning, but Killian knew better than to let his guard down. Every time the bell rang in the library, Killian was alert, ready for the worst (even if logically he knew his twin wouldn’t announce his presence—though, they did share an affinity for melodrama…). And he’d put on his sword belt for the first time in ages, for both comfort and protection.

He was reshelving a few books when the bell chimed again. He paused to listen, but was mildly surprised when Leroy’s voice rang out in the otherwise quiet library—and sounded more than grumpy. “What the hell, pirate?”

Confused, Killian shoved the book in his hand on the shelf and quickly made his way to the lobby. “Watch the volume, mate,” he chastised. “What’s the problem?”

Leroy was glaring at him and huffing. “Don’t pretend you don’t know; I saw you! Taking a joyride on my boat this morning, using all my gas, and then you just left it adrift. It almost ran into the shipping lane!”

“Why would I take your dinghy when my ship is right there?” Killian countered. “It was probably my good-for-nothing brother.”

“Then why was he dressed like you? And I saw your hook!”

He rolled his eyes; of course Dorian would find a new way to make trouble for him. “Well it wasn’t me! I’ve been here all day, and my wife can provide my alibi prior to that—in detail, if you’d like,” Killian threw back, biting back a smirk at the memory of what they’d gotten up to in bed that morning.

“No thank you,” he responded, stepping back with his hands up. “Just—keep that asshole in check, okay?”

“He’s not my responsibility.”

“Whatever,” Leroy grumbled, and left as quickly as he’d arrived.

Killian was irked by the encounter. Not so much at Dorian’s antics, annoying though they were (and would probably need his attention at some point)—but he was somewhat perturbed by the fact that Leroy was so quick to assume it had been him. There was definitely a time he may have done that, but now? After everything in the past few years? Did the dwarf truly still think so little of him?

He shook his head; Leroy didn’t have much faith in anyone. It was just a stupid misunderstanding; perhaps he’d go down to the docks and see if he could use his powers, meager as they were, to tow the boat back into harbor. But it was nothing to be truly upset over, not on his end.

The day went on without further event and the encounter was nearly out of his mind when he ran into another dwarf outside the sheriff station. Sneezy was coming from the opposite direction and reached the door before he did, but then paused and faced him.

“Uh, Captain,” he started, then characteristically sneezed. He went on after wiping his nose on his ever-present handkerchief. “I was about to report what happened earlier, but I’d be happy to settle now, if you want—if you’d rather Emma not know.”

“Know what?”

“About the rum you stole,” he said matter-of-factly. “You didn’t exactly hide it.”

Killian scoffed; he’d never been impressed by the rum selection at the pharmacy, nor was he desperate enough to shoplift subpar liquor. “I’ve been at the library all day, mate; you should hit up my lookalike for the cash. Or go ahead and report it; may as well add to his rap sheet.”

The dwarf tilted his head, confused. “But—your hook—and clothes—”

“—Are easy to replicate with magic like his,” Killian sighed. “Really, mate? I thought you knew me better.”

Sneezy at least looked a bit like his brother Bashful at that, then uttered a quick apology before nearly running back in the direction from which he’d come.

Killian pinched the bridge of his nose, again frustrated.

It didn’t stop there, though—on the entire walk from the station to Granny’s with Emma, he was on the receiving end of glares, muttering, and people keeping their distance. Granted, that was typical treatment from the gaggle of fairies they passed, given their history.

But even mild-mannered Gepetto, upon his exit from the diner, turned suddenly angry at the sight of Killian and wasted no time getting in his face and yelling in his native tongue. Killian was skilled at languages but not well-studied in that one, save for a few curse words—all of which he heard in the tirade.

The carpenter didn’t give Killian a chance to reply before storming off, leaving him fatigued and Emma confused. “What the hell was his problem?” she griped.

“No clue—but I’m willing to bet it was my brother; that’s been happening all afternoon.”

“Ugh, that dick,” she cursed. “But can’t people tell the difference by now?”

“You’d think,” he sighed, knowing that didn’t mean a damn thing if a glamour spell was involved.

“Sounds like he needs to be punched in his pretty nose to make sure it’s more obvious,” she suggested, stepping into Killian’s space and tapping his own nose.

“You think my nose is pretty?” he flirted back.

“All of you is. Way more than him,” she assured him, then dragged him into the restaurant.

He obviously knew he was innocent of the various misdemeanors he’d been accused of, and he was certainly no stranger to being a suspect. But that hurt feeling from earlier crept back up in him as he fielded side-eyed stares from his seat across from an oblivious Emma while they ate.

Hadn’t he earned this town’s trust? Weren’t they well past any questioning of his actions? Yes, his history was rocky—but he’d literally died for the residents of Storybrooke.

And it was no secret he had a doppelgänger running around. So the fact they were so quick to turn on him was far more painful than he’d like to admit.

“Babe? Your glass—are you okay?” Emma’s concerned voice pulled him from his morose thoughts, and he realized a whirlpool was threatening to spin out of his glass of water.

“Sorry,” he answered quickly, and focused on calming the tiny maelstrom. “Just—thinking about everything,” he said, simplifying the truth.

“I know.” She reached over and squeezed his hand. “Good thing you’ve got another magic lesson in the morning, huh?”

He groaned in response; she giggled.

“Come on; let’s get you home. You’ll need your rest,” she said suggestively as she got to her feet, taking him with her, hinting that they would spend time not resting as well.

The lascivious smirk Granny gave him as Emma paid their tab was less out of place than his other interactions today, but was at least positive. So he did still have some friends, it seemed.

And as he and Emma finally collapsed in each other’s arms later, sweaty and sated, as long as she was still on his side, who else did he require?

★・・・・・・★・・・・・・🗡・・・・・・★・・・・・・★

Though Dorian was no stranger to using a glamour spell, and had certainly used far more dramatic disguises in his life, this one was perhaps the most initially uncomfortable—mainly in how little changed.

As it was, he and Killian were nearly mirror images to start with—what with their scars on opposing cheeks and the fact that they parted their hair on different sides. So to see such minor differences in his reflection was a somewhat out-of-body experience—this was close to what people actually saw when they looked at him.

He allowed his minor existential crisis to persist for a minute before finishing the transformation; at least his brother had decent style, if a bit different than his own. (How could he stand these tight jeans?) The false hook over his left hand was awkward, but necessary.

Anyways. It was time to see if he could pull this off; after all, he was far too wise not to do foolish things now and then. He headed down to the diner (after peeking around a corner to make sure neither Killian nor Emma were already there—though the fact that he’d slept in probably prevented that) and slipped onto a stool at the counter.

This time, when Granny greeted him, it was much warmer. “Early lunch?”

“Aye; the usual, my dear,” he tested. “And I just couldn’t wait to see you,” he added with a wink.

Granny blushed and chuckled, then shuffled off to the kitchen. Good; she was receptive to his flirting. If he was bold enough about it, surely that would stir up some ill will towards his brother; just what kind of man brashly flirted with a woman who wasn’t his wife? And there was a reasonable audience, even if mid-morning was somewhat slow.

So hopefully someone noticed when he grabbed the bottle of whiskey sitting behind the counter and snuck it into his lap.

A few minutes later, the older lady was back, sliding over a plate of fish and chips; predictable of his brother. “Fresh caught, extra vinegar on the chips—just how you like it.”

“Oh, you spoil me,” he replied, holding back a gag at the smell of the vinegar. He leaned across the counter, continuing, “If there’s anything I can do to repay you, you know where to find me,” then suggestively licking his lips.

To his shock, she just laughed and patted his cheek. “You know you couldn’t handle me, sweetheart.” And went back to her business.

Hm. Well, that wasn’t quite the response he expected. But he at least passed for Killian; that was a good sign. (Unfortunately, he had to sell it by actually eating this meal; thank the gods for the whiskey to wash it down.)

He headed down to the marina next, finding the easiest boat he could hotwire (which, with his magic, was all of them) and took a bit of a joyride, then poofed ashore when that got boring.

After a trip through the pharmacy, where he got a five-finger discount on some mid-range rum, he relieved himself in the shrubs outside a convent, knocked over the displays outside the florist, pretended to need the services of the carpenter but just dumped wood stain over his wares, and dragged the tip of his hook along some parked cars.

Briefly, he took a smoking break outside the elementary school and let the half-burnt cigarette fall into a bush outside a classroom, setting it alight. He was enjoying watching the slowly growing fire when the room’s window flew open and a petite woman with short, dark hair attacked it with a fire extinguisher. “Don’t you have anything better to do?” she snapped at him.

“No,” he answered succinctly, and transported away, hopefully leaving a scorch mark on the lawn, too.

He’d noticed a friendship between his brother and the librarian—the gorgeous woman who had seemingly questionable taste in men. He’d be shocked if the two of them had kept things purely platonic, despite their respective well-known relationships. And if they hadn’t…well, it was time for him to explore that, even if for his own enjoyment.

The bell on the library rang as he entered. “You here, love?” he called out, suddenly realizing he’d never caught the lass’s name.

“Right where you left me,” she shouted; shit, he forgot his brother worked here. That was a close call. He followed the sound of her voice to the next room, where he found her desperately trying to reach something on the top shelf. “Perfect timing; can you lend me a hand? Pun intended.”

“Ha,” he answered awkwardly, not sure if he should be acting offended or not. “But of course.”

He didn’t hesitate to grab the volumes she asked for, but rather than just hand them over, he took the opportunity to move into her space. “Oh, uh, thanks,” she said, trying to take a step back, but she didn’t get far before bumping into a cart.

“That’s all my assistance is worth? ‘Thanks’?”

“Killian, you know I appreciate you—”

“So let me appreciate you, darling,” he said on a breath, leaning in close. “Don’t tell me you’ve never felt something…more…between us.” Subtly, he raised the blinds in the room so any passers by might see his attempted pursuit of someone who clearly wasn’t his brother’s wife.

She looked up at him, lips parted, and he was aware of her heightened heart rate. She narrowed her gaze briefly. “No, I haven’t—Dorian.”

“Who’s Dorian?” he lied.

Her knee found his crotch swiftly and strongly; she might be short and slight, but she was the perfect height to do optimum damage to his manhood. He stumbled back, dropping the books and holding his groin, groaning, with stars beginning to cloud his vision.

“I can’t believe I almost fell for that,” she yelled. “You really thought I wouldn’t be able to tell?”

“Ah, but you almost did,” he countered, even though his voice was incredibly strained.

He could see her blushing even through his squinted view. “Never,” she insisted, though it sounded like she was trying to convince herself as much as him. “I won’t do that, and I won’t help you.”

He scoffed as his breath started to come back. “What use are you to me? Just a silly librarian; even if you are married to the Dark One.”

She smirked. “I’m used to people underestimating me. I suggest you don’t again. Wouldn’t want anything to happen to that painting of yours, would you?”

“My painting?” He wasn’t surprised she knew of it—this was a library, obviously, if even the book he’d inspired was largely fabrication—but he’d left it behind in another realm, hoping the distance (and that particular realm’s timelessness) would prevent its aging, or at least slow it.

But then—he felt it. A faint heartbeat in his ear, just a millisecond behind his own but the same tempo: the heart of his True Love, continuing to carry a rhythm for him even though it was shattered and locked in canvas. It seemed to be coming from above them; he glanced up, trying to locate it, but didn’t get very far before his gaze was forced away rather painfully.

Belle had slapped him—again, stronger than he expected, but he’d been hit so many times that it hardly stung. “Get the hell out of here, and leave us alone.”

“Alright, alright,” he replied, and immediately poofed away—right into the attic of the library. The drumbeat of the heart was even louder up here, and he was easily able to follow it—while stepping lightly enough to not make a sound—to one end of the cluttered storage room.

And there it was: his iconic portrait. It…wasn’t pretty. Not that it had been when he’d stashed it in the Land of Untold Stories, but it had definitely continued to deteriorate, though thankfully less than it probably should have. There was part of his soul that certainly felt like the withered, grayed, gnarled mess of a man in the image before him, but only a small one.

Actually, it was a good thing the portrait had made its way here; perhaps, when he achieved his plan, he’d also be able to sever his tie to this in favor of the dagger. He’d leave it here for now—but he’d be back for it later.

He had at least one more stop to make. So he transported again to an alley by the sheriff station, knocked over a mailbox, and casually headed inside. While it would be fun to see how far he could take things with Emma, he had no doubt she’d be able to see through this disguise even quicker than the librarian had. But the other deputy, the blond one—he might be slower on the uptake.

“Hey, Hook,” the man said, barely glancing up from the paperwork he was filling out. “Emma’s doing rounds.”

“Aye; I’m aware,” he said, sauntering closer. “I was here to see you, anyway.”

“Yeah?” The man—David, judging by the name plate on the desk—looked up at him. “What’s up?”

Dorian wasted no time in taking a seat right in front of him on the desk, cupping his (rather handsome) face, and quickly finding his lips.

The ensuing chain of reactions was honestly hilarious: the other man stilled at first, then leaned into it, but then seemed to realize who he was kissing and pushed away, jumping to his feet.

“What the hell was that?” he spat, wiping off his mouth on the back of his hand.

Dorian hopped off the desk and moved closer to David. “I was always curious; you mean you weren’t?”

“No!” he shouted. “Not like—just, no!”

“Was I that bad?” Dorian flirted, tilting his head.

“No, you were—not my son-in-law,” David sighed, realizing who he was talking to.

“Ugh, you’re no fun,” Dorian replied. “And you’re only a halfway decent kisser.”

“My wife thinks I’m just fine,” David threw back, somewhat offended. “And if you’re trying to turn people against Killian, you’re gonna have to try harder than that.”

“You almost bought it.”

“Please; Killian only has eyes for Emma. Not that you’d know anything about True Love, I bet.”

Dorian glowered. “You don’t know anything about me, pal. Maybe get off your high horse with your generalizations.”

David stepped closer and put his hands on his hips; Dorian couldn’t help but feel like he was about to get a lecture. “I don’t know everything about you, but I’ve known enough people like you. I actually had a twin, too.”

“Oh? More than one of you? Must have been terribly dull.”

“Actually, you’d probably have gotten along with him famously; he was a selfish cad, too.”

“And where’s this fellow now?”

“Oh, he’s dead,” David went on. “From what I heard, he got a little too cocky, a little sloppy, and it came back to bite him. Or, well, stab him through the chest.”

“Ouch,” Dorian deadpanned. “And your point is?”

“Maybe you should ease up on making enemies. Because you don’t know which one is going to finally take you out.”

“And what—make friends instead?”

David shrugged. “Can’t hurt. Though I also can’t say you have good odds of finding many here, after all the drama you’ve stirred up so far.”

“No thanks.”

“Hey,” David said, softer, and placed a hand on his shoulder. “I know you’ve spent a long time chasing one thing, and it seems like you have nothing else to live for. But I watched your brother change his path; it’s not too late for you.”

Dorian gingerly pushed David’s hand off, like it was something disgusting. “Look, I know you hero types, and I know you mean well and want what’s best for me, or whatever. But I also know this: you have to want to change. Clearly my brother did. Me, though? I find good advice rather annoying. So save your breath.”

“Suit yourself.”

“I will, thanks.” And he transported back to his pilfered room at Granny’s.

His conversation with David was already forgotten; the deputy had probably hoped his words would linger and Dorian would reconsider his entire life. But no—he knew what he wanted.

And now, he just had to wait to see what fallout his (mis)adventures today wrought.

★・・・・・・★・・・・・・🗡・・・・・・★・・・・・・★

Late 1880s

Dorian stepped out of the portal onto a dirty cobblestone alley. Once the gateway closed behind him, he placed his second bean in his inner coat pocket for safekeeping, and sealed it with magic—which thankfully worked; he wasn’t sure what to expect as far as being able to normally access his powers in this so-called Land without Magic, but was glad to see they were so far unhindered.

Of course, the irony of this realm carrying that name was that he had come here seeking magic out. It wasn’t fully devoid, he could tell, but he’d heard that it was far-flung, infrequent, and hidden from the general populace.

Which was probably why it was so dark in this backstreet; what kind of uncivilized society hadn’t figured out proper outdoor lighting yet? He could see some primitive lanterns at the end of the way, on what looked to be a main street, but could smell the fuel in them from here.

As such, he conjured a fireball in his hand to get his bearings. He’d arrived in the corner of an alley that went between and behind buildings—great, grimy brick monstrosities. Some parchment sat atop abandoned crates along one side; he inspected closer, reading The Daily Telegraph across the top of the page, followed by a picture of a man identified as the Prince of Wales, which he had to assume was a meaningful title as no proper name was given.

He further studied the fashion of the man, then glanced down at his own clothes, which were decidedly not of this realm from what he could see. That was easy to fix, though, and with a wave of his hand, he was wearing a garment that closely resembled what he saw in the image: a coat with long-ish tails, slacks, and a waistcoat. He didn’t hate it, but the vest wasn’t quite his style.

Anyways. That settled, he reached into a different pocket (he’d made sure the contents of those stayed the same regardless of what his jacket looked like) and pulled out a slip of paper with a name written on it: Basil Hallward. From what he’d been told, this man could help him find the magic he needed to get him one step closer to the Dark One’s powers.

(That Rumpelstiltskin bastard had placed so many protection spells over the Dark Castle, it was bordering on ridiculous. Didn’t he know it was once Dorian’s home? But no—the demon wouldn’t even grace him with a meeting to grant him access to his old quarters. Granted, he’d have been an idiot to, but one could hope. But perhaps here, in this land that seemed to reject magic, he’d find that which could break through those spells and reclaim his birthright.)

He glanced down both alleys in front of him. The one towards the street was empty—just brick walls and boarded-up windows—but going the other way, he could see a light glimmering outside an inconspicuous door.

And if he wasn’t mistaken, the light in the lantern was not fueled by whatever oil illuminated the streets; no, this one was quite similar to the ball of fire in his hand. The portal had placed him in the right spot.

Before he headed to the door, he placed the slip of paper in his own flare, letting it fall to ashes on the stone pavement. Then he extinguished it with a shake of his hand and headed over.

Upon closer inspection, the lamp was indeed his variety of fire magic, though there seemed to be an object at the center of it that kept it burning. Clever, he thought; it meant less mental effort to keep it lit (not that he had to exert much anymore for such simple spells).

The door itself was painted roughly to match the exterior wall—or it had been, once upon a time, and now was faded and flaking, but he could still make out where “B. Hallward” was written in yellowing letters.

He knocked, firmly and insistently, and then waited. He wasn’t naive enough to think he’d get an immediate answer, or even to think he’d be seen tonight, but there was also no sense waiting.

He listened close to the door for a minute or so, but if there was anything to hear, it was unnoticeable. Then he paced a bit, keenly aware of the sounds of his unfamiliar shoes tapping on the stones.

But after nearly 10 minutes, he had to concede that either Mr. Hallward was out for the evening, or didn’t wish to be disturbed. Well, surely a town of this size had a red-light district; it wouldn’t be the first time he’d spent a night in such an establishment (usually willingly).

He began to walk towards the sounds of society, at the far end of this alley, when he paused; he thought he heard the turn of a deadbolt. He turned back to look at the door; it was still shut, but the color of the flame in the lantern had changed to blue. Curious.

He moved closer to it, and to his surprise, a small window appeared from nowhere. There was no glass inside it, but he could see nothing but blackness behind it. “Yes?” a voice called out from the void.

“Basil Hallward?” he asked.

“Who wants to know?” the voice replied.

“Someone who has traveled a great distance to seek you out.”

The voice cursed, probably realizing he’d revealed his identity without meaning to. “What for?” he finally came back with.

“A bit of magic,” he answered, then called forth his own fire again.

The window disappeared and the door swung open. “Come in,” the other man called out; Dorian didn’t hesitate to oblige.

Whatever he was expecting—this wasn’t it. Despite whatever spell lay on the entryway—and he could feel it as he stepped through—it was actually fairly light inside, with more enchanted lamps around the open space, which revealed the absolute clutter everywhere. And, to the back of the room, what appeared to be a painter’s studio.

“You’re an artist?” he exclaimed, minorly disgusted.

“That I am, sir,” the other man replied, and Dorian finally got a look at him: he seemed young—younger than him, at least—and the narrow mustache above his lip did nothing to make him appear older. He pushed his dark, curly hair out of his equally dark eyes. “What of it?”

“I came here looking for magic,” Dorian spat. “Not to sit for my portrait.”

“A pity; you’d make an excellent subject, with that profile. But I do both, actually.”

“Both?” He raised an eyebrow, skeptic.

“Aye; let me show you.” Basil beckoned Dorian towards his work bench; he hesitantly followed. The man picked up a vial of what Dorian assumed was pigment off the cluttered surface. He uncorked it and held it out. “Do you recognize it?”

Dorian narrowed his gaze and peered inside. It was just a black powder, but he recognized the smell. “Adder’s fork?”

“Good eye,” Basil commended. “And this?” he asked, holding out a small dish with a bluish powder.

“Mermaid scale,” Dorian identified. “I don’t understand.”

“Magic works differently in this realm,” Basil explained. “No one here is born with it inherently, but what makes its way here usually requires a conduit—some physical tether. Me, I learned how to embed it in my paint, using these ingredients.”

“And then what?”

“Whatever you want,” Basil answered. “Within reason, of course.” He showed off a portrait of an expectant mother, explaining that the woman and her husband had been trying to have children for several years when he painted her; “Now, she has three children and another on the way.” Another painting displayed a vagabond sitting on a street curb. “His wife discovered he was cheating on her; now he’s destitute and she kept his wealth.”

“So you grant wishes?”

“In a sense. A fertility spell was embedded in this portrait, a curse of ill-luck in the other.”

Dorian glanced back at the work space and saw a good number of potion books—many of them he knew—across a bookshelf above it. “Ahhh,” he sighed in understanding. “Then you likely don’t have what I’m after.”

“Which is?”

“A way to break into a heavily fortified castle?”

Basil shook his head. “Afraid not. But if you have something of its occupant’s, we could probably find a way to cast them out, or at least make them horridly uncomfortable.”

“If it were that easy, I wouldn’t be here.”

“No, I suppose you wouldn’t. Hope you didn’t come far, then.”

“Only a few realms away.”

Basil whistled low. “Then I at least owe you a drink. What’s your poison?”

“Whiskey?”

He nodded and led him over to a sitting area, where they proceeded to chat over (some damn fine) liquor. Basil was curious about the magical realms—he had some acquaintances who passed through the other worlds who supplied him with his materials, but had never been himself. Dorian wondered how he’d fallen into this line of work, then.

“The man I apprenticed with taught me; passed on all he knew.” Well, that sounded familiar.

As such, they got on famously, to the point that Basil offered Dorian use of a spare bedroom in his home for as long as he was staying in this realm.

What the hell, Dorian thought. The Dark One wasn’t going anywhere—he could enjoy himself for a bit. (It wasn’t like he ever needed an excuse to do so.)

For the next few weeks, Basil showed him about this curious town—London, it was called, and far larger than he realized—and introduced him to many interesting people (and vices; opium was a delight, though he saw enough of the strung-out folks addicted to it to use in moderation).

They went to countless parties, gatherings, concerts, sporting events. At one such dinner, he met a writer named Oscar who seemed to be infatuated with him; he couldn’t say he disliked the attention. The man became a regular fixture in their outings as well (and maybe a few private nights).

Dorian did oblige Basil to pose for a portrait eventually; far be it for him to deny the world his beauty. “And what enchantment will you weave into this one?” he asked, peering over his friend’s shoulder; Basil had finished painting his face and form, but nothing else yet.

“None,” Basil replied simply. “You have enough magic on your own.

(There may also have been a few nights he spent in Basil’s room, as well. He was hardly a choosy lover, so long as someone caught his interest.)

He smirked cockily at the praise and admired his face and form on the canvas. Basil was truly a gifted artist and, in his personal opinion, had perfectly captured Dorian’s handsomeness, strength, and form, down to the color of his eyes.

However, later that night as he readied for bed, he caught a glimpse of something new in his reflection in the looking glass: was that…a wrinkle?

He pulled at the flesh around his eyes, watching as it stretched and returned. Indeed, there was a fine line—a few, even—in that delicate skin.

He was 30 years old; he knew it was inevitable he began to look it (even if he dare say he looked better than most men his age). But it was a sudden, stark reminder: the being he was chasing was immortal; he, however, was not.

(There was probably some sage advice somewhere about avoiding vice to extend his longevity, but…where was the fun in that?)

★・・・・・・★・・・・・・🗡・・・・・・★・・・・・・★

thanks for reading! tagging some peeps (let me know if you do/don’t want a tag!) @kat2609 @xpumpkindumplingx @shipsxahoy @mryddinwilt @cocohook38 @annytecture @shireness-says @ohmightydevviepuu @wistfulcynic @pirateherokillian @colinoeyebrows @wingedlioness @word-bug @thisonesatellite @killianmesmalls @thejollyroger-writer @ineffablecolors @ive-always-been-a-pirate @nfbagelperson @stubblesandwich @phiralovesloki @athenascarlet @kmomof4 @ilovemesomekillianjones @whimsicallyenchantedrose @snowbellewells @idristardis @scientificapricot @searchingwardrobes @donteattheappleshook @jrob64 @the-darkdragonfly @stahlop @klynn-stormz @resident-of-storybrooke @bluewildcatfanatic

#cs ff #killian jones ff #cssns 2023 #captain swan supernatural summer #sons of love and death #my ff

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writerofthewinds · 2 years

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So I was wondering if you could do an agender!reader and Jason. They look so similar that they often get asked if they're siblings. It's a simple friends to lovers fic (because I am a simp and a creature of habit). They're both in the 5th cohort at CJ, before Jason becomes praetor. And Y/N's godly parent in Aurora (goddess of dawn) because they are a little ball of sunshine. A lot of it is up to you, those are really the main details I care about.

I thought I lost you, Jason Grace x reader.

A/N: I diverged from your request. Sorry for the amount of time taken doing exams, and tbh. Law school is hard asf

You and Jason had always been close. From the moment you met at Camp Jupiter, people mistook you for siblings due to your strikingly similar features. You both laughed it off, knowing that you were just good friends. As members of the 5th cohort, you trained and fought alongside each other, earning a reputation as a powerful duo. You admired Jason's bravery and leadership, and he appreciated your unwavering positivity and determination. But as you spent more time together, your feelings for Jason changed. You couldn't help but notice how his blue eyes sparkled in the sunlight, or his dimples appeared when he smiled. One day, while sitting on the steps of the temple of Jupiter, you finally mustered up the courage to tell Jason how you felt. "Jason, I need to tell you something," you said, your heart racing. "What is it?" he asked, his expression curious. "I…I have feelings for you," you confessed, feeling a rush of adrenaline. Jason's eyes widened in surprise, and he took a step back. "I-I didn't expect that," he stammered. "Y/N, you're amazing, but I don't think of you that way. I'm sorry." You felt your heart sink, and you struggled to hold back tears. "Oh, okay," you said softly. "I understand." Jason looked at you with a pained expression. "I'm sorry if I hurt you," he said. "But I have to go now. I'll talk to you later, okay?" You nodded, watching as he walked away. As soon as he was out of sight, you let out a sob, feeling the weight of rejection crush you. But despite the pain, you knew you couldn't let this defeat you. You were still a warrior of Camp Jupiter, and you had to keep fighting. So you wiped away your tears, took a deep breath, and stood up. You would get through this, one way or another. After that awkward conversation, things between you and Jason became a little tense. You both tried your best to act like everything was expected, but there was an unspoken awkwardness between you. Your friends at camp noticed the change in your dynamic and couldn't help but ask what was happening. But, of course, you brushed off their questions, not wanting to reveal your feelings or make things more complicated than they already were. As days turned into weeks, you both tried your best to move on from the confession. You continued to train and fight together, but there was a sense of distance between you that hadn't been there before. Despite this, you were determined to keep your friendship intact. You knew Jason was essential in your life, and you didn't want to lose that connection.

So you pushed through the awkwardness, spending time with him and trying to act like everything was normal. You laughed at his jokes, teased him during training, and did your best to be a good friend. And while things never entirely went back to how they were before, you both learned to live with the unspoken tension. You had each other's backs on the battlefield; that was all that mattered. Ultimately, you were glad you had taken a chance and confessed your feelings. Even though it didn't work out the way you wanted, you had no regrets. You had been faithful to yourself, and that was all that mattered. The battle at Mont Talpamais was one of the most brutal battles the legion had ever faced. The attack on Mount Orthys was relentless, and casualties were high. Nevertheless, you and Jason fought, using your skills to kill as many enemies as possible. At one point, the legion seemed to be winning. But then, everything changed. A sudden explosion rocked the battlefield, and chaos ensued. You were caught in the blast, disoriented, and injured when you came to. You tried to get up, but pain shot through your body, and you collapsed back onto the ground. You could hear the sounds of battle, but you couldn't move. Finally, you felt yourself slipping away, knowing this could be the end. Meanwhile, Jason was fighting furiously, taking down enemy after enemy. But as the battle raged on, he realized he hadn't seen you in a while. So he looked around frantically, searching for your familiar face.

But then he heard a scream. It was a scream of pain and grief; he knew it could only belong to one person. He ran towards the sound, his heart pounding in his chest. When he arrived at the scene, he saw your lifeless body lying on the ground. Tears streamed down his face as he fell to his knees beside you. He couldn't believe that you were gone. But as he looked at you, something inside him shifted. He realized that he had been in love with you all along. He thought of all the times you had made him laugh, all the moments you had shared, and all the things that had made him fall in love with you. He let out a heart-wrenching scream, grieving not only for your death but for the fact that he would never have the chance to tell you how he felt. Then, as he cradled your lifeless body in his arms, he whispered words of love and regret, wishing he could return in time and tell you everything. At that moment, Jason realized that life was too short to hide his feelings. So he vowed to never make that mistake again and always speak his heart, no matter the consequences. As the battle raged on, the legion managed to turn the tide and emerge victorious. Jason was devastated that he couldn't find your body in the chaos of the battlefield. He searched frantically for any sign of you, hoping against hope that you were still alive. But as time passed and the battle ended, he realized he had to accept the truth. You were gone, and he would never get to tell you how he felt. His regret was crushing, and he felt like he had lost a part of himself. But even as he grieved, he knew he had responsibilities. He had been elected praetor of the twelfth legion, and the legion needed his leadership now more than ever. So with a heavy heart, he returned to camp and took up his duties.

vAs the days passed, Jason tried to put on a brave face for his fellow legionnaires. But deep down, he was still mourning your loss, and he couldn't shake the feeling of regret. He knew he had to find a way to move on, but he didn't know how. He spent hours lost in thought, trying to come to terms with everything that had happened. Ultimately, his duties as praetor gave him a sense of purpose. He threw himself into his work, determined to be the best leader. And while he would never forget you, he knew he had to focus on the present and the future. But sometimes, late at night, when he was alone with his thoughts, he would let himself grieve for you. He would remember all the good times they had shared and all the things he wished he had said. And he would whisper words of love into the darkness, hoping that somehow, somewhere, you could hear him. As Jason was speaking to the entire population of the legion in New Rome's forum about some crucial decisions, he noticed movement out of the corner of his eye. He stopped speaking and turned to see you entering the forum, covered in dirt and still wearing your armor. His heart leaped in his chest at the sight of you. He had thought you were gone forever, and your sudden appearance was almost too much to handle. He ran towards you, calling out your name, but you collapsed to the ground before he could reach you. He felt a jolt of fear as he saw you fall, and he rushed to your side, calling for someone to get a doctor. His mind was racing as he tried to assess your condition. He couldn't believe you were alive and in front of him. He felt a wave of emotions, relief, joy, and fear wash over him. He stayed by your side, holding your hand and talking to you, telling you he was here and everything would be okay. And even as the doctors came to take you away, he knew that he would never let you out of his sight again. He had almost lost you once, and he wouldn't make that mistake again. As he watched you being carried away on a stretcher, he vowed to tell you how he felt, no matter what. He didn't want to spend another moment living with the regret of not expressing his love. He knew the road ahead would be difficult, but he was ready to face it with you. You were surprised when Jason leaned in and kissed you as you opened your eyes. But you didn't pull away, instead prolonging the kiss, feeling the warmth and love that radiated from him. When you finally pulled away, he asked you what had happened. You explained that your mother, Aurora, had appeared and healed you as you were about to die on the battlefield. But, unfortunately, no one else could see her, and after she had healed you, you fainted and woke up in the wolf's house. It was during dawn, and you prayed to Aurora, who then brought you to Camp Jupiter.

As you finished your story, Jason's eyes filled with tears, and he confessed that he had loved you all along. He told you how he realized his feelings during the battle when he thought he had lost you forever. He spoke about everything that had made him fall in love with you, your kindness, strength, and unwavering optimism. He said he had been too scared to tell you before, but now, he could say it with the fear of losing you finally gone. You felt your heart fill with warmth at his words, and you leaned in to kiss him again, wrapping your arms around him tightly. You told him you loved him and had felt the same way for a long time. As you broke away from the kiss, you both looked into each other's eyes, and you knew that everything was going to be okay. You had both faced your fears and come out on the other side stronger and more in love than ever before.

#jason x reader #jason grace #percy jackson #pjo #wolf boy jason #jason grace x reader #heores of olympus #hoo #pjo stuff #story prompt #story prompts #angst prompt #angst to fluff #camp jupiter #hoo stuff #pjo hoo toa #jason grace x you

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psychewritesbs · 1 year

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Been reading your opinions on the boy of all time megumi and can I just say firstly, thank you for being so good w words BC man you get his character so well and you're so good at getting into all the little details abt him that I can never properly describe to ppl, Like, the whole breaks the trope while following the trope thing?? YOU GOT THAT ALL SO CORRECT THATS EXACTLY IT IT'S ONE OF THE REASONS I LOVE HIS CHARACTER SM BC EVEN JUST RIGHT OFF THE BAT HE BREAKS THE USUAL STOIC BROODING CHARACTER TROPE(THE trope) BY ACTUALLY CONSTANTLY SHOWING although subtly THAT HE DOESNT HATE EVERYONE?? im getting way off track already i actually popped in here to just ask abt how you think the whole sukuna possessing megumi thing will all turn out?? I honestly feel like slapping myself for not seeing it coming tbh like they talked about the head of the six eyes and ten shadows battling it out to the death before and sukuna kept on hyping up megumi like they were so obviously setting that up there and I just. Denied. But I'm just asking BC personally I think that it would really show the final steps of growth for megumi's character if he is actually able to surprise sukuna, even for a little, and come back from the depths of where ever tf he is rn bc yk his whole issue w/ self worth and what he believes he's capable of and I just wanted to know what you think the best outcome for his character would be? Sorry this is such a mess I just have so many thoughts zooming around my brain and I'm trying to...make them make sense...

ITS THE MEGUMI LOVE!!!! Yessssss. Thank you for sending me Megumi love! I love getting Megumi love 🫶🏼.

Man, Megumi is just such a good character. Truly one of Gege's best. Everything he's done with him from how his character is based on the trope while also subverting the trope, to his backstory and his growth arc and how it's been executed... It's poetic justice.

I love Megumi so much, and any time I see someone hate on Megumi for really shallow or toxic reasons I just lose all faith in humanity. It's one thing to not care for him as a character and quite another to dislike him for being a "disappointing deuteragonist" because he's "weak", "hasn't had character development", and "did not master 10 Shadows"..................................................

Bruh...

ANYWAYS 😂 you see... this is the thing... I am trying really hard not to speculate about what might happen regarding Sukuna WHICH IS EXACTLY WHY I'M GOING TO SPECULATE BECAUSE I LOVE SUKUNA BUT FUCK SUKUNA!

ehem. More of me not being normal about Megumi under the cut.

Ok in all seriousness... with chapter 230 and how Sukuna forced Megumi to take the brunt hit of Unlimited Void, something shifted in me.

For some time I've been reluctant to make any predictions about Megumi coming out alive because I don't want to have preconceived expectations coloring my weekly reading experience, but mostly because, like Megumi, I have a tendency to bunt instead of swinging for the fence so as to not experience disappointment. Read this to mean I don't want to get my hopes up about Megumi surviving.

That is not to mention that I took Sukuna possessing Megumi's body personal. idk, something about seeing Megumi lose his agency felt both so wrong and yet so right on a metaphorical level. Wrong because DAMN YOU SUKUNA GO BACK TO YOUR BODY! and right because... as you said, Megumi had it coming both from a narrative and psychological perspective.

From then on, we just saw him sink deeper and deeper into learned helplessness and despair, culminating on this beautiful image of him in the fetal position.

Truly a reversal of ego back into the metaphorical mother (the unconscious) as though he was in the birth canal waiting for rebirth. And come to think of it, in the Japanese fandom, one of the more popular theories revolved around "birth" or something like that.

So with ch. 230, my hope for Megumi is renewed somehow. A lot of people think he's done for, especially after UV. But I'm on camp #this is going to backfire badly on both Gojo and Sukuna... or at least I hope it does.

So....

I'm just asking BC personally I think that it would really show the final steps of growth for megumi's character if he is actually able to surprise sukuna, even for a little

EXACTLY! And see, this is the thing, I don't want to see Megumi be saved by anyone other than himself. If Megumi is saved by others, then he didn't learn his lesson.

Basically, Megumi has taken Tsumiki's place as the Sleeping Beauty that is in need of rescuing. He's become a passive agent in his own life, which is exactly what gave Sukuna an opening.

If Gojo or Yuji, or anyone for that matter, comes in and saves Megumi without Megumi putting up a fight, then this whole growth process is metaphorically and literally aborted.

Like you, I personally think that this period could be a metaphorical gestational period for Megumi and I wonder if he's going to reach a tipping point where the anger he feels is stronger than the learned helplessness or something like that.

I just wanted to know what you think the best outcome for his character would be?

ALL THAT TO SAY THAT YES. Sukuna might be my other fave, but I am looking forward to either Megumi giving him a hard time or straight up beating the crap out of him.

Megumi has earned that privilege.

Right now, I am wondering how UV has affected Megumi's brain and what that will mean for his behavior. My hc is that his negative self-image is partly due to "reason". In other words, reason = his sense of self as the story he tells himself about himself.

But Megumi levels up because of imagination. Now that he's been hit by UV (I understand it's been 5 times?), how has being flooded with infinity affected the left (reason or logic, analytical) hemisphere of his brain?

Another idea I've been keeping quiet about is that part of the rebirth process involves moving through hell and up into heaven (a la Dante's Divine Comedy as a metaphor for a process of initiation or enlightenment). Megumi right now is sinking in hell as he comes face to face with inner evil.

So can we expect him to come back up? Will Beatrice make a cameo? I'm looking forward to whatever the cursed cat is cooking.

I just have so many thoughts zooming around my brain and I'm trying to...make them make sense...

ahaha, same tho.

Hey thanks again for the Megumi love, the kind comments, and for stopping by! Here's to hoping Gege does bring our boy back 🙌.

#god i love jujutsu kaisen #ask the mental gymnastics anime girl

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hopeandduty · 4 days

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Day 18: Hackneyed

“You seem troubled.”

Aymeric’s gentle voice is one of the few sounds remaining upon the streets. The chirugeon had finally insisted that they leave, even though Estinien had fallen asleep hours ago, neither could quite bring themselves to depart. That he was returned to them from Nidhogg’s clutches felt as a dream and it seemed they both feared waking from it.

There should be naught but relief in her heart for his safe return and truly she could not be more grateful that his life spared in the thick of the battle upon the Steps of Faith. Yet she knows upon what power she needed to draw upon to see the battle through, to see the eyes pried from his armour and she knows how Ishgard regards a dark knight.

It did not seem as though anyone had noticed, but Ciardha cannot help but wonder all the same. Once the dust had settled and clamour calmed, would the whispers of rumours take flight? Would she need put Ishgard to her back as well and never return?

“If I may be of some aid, you need only say the word." Aymeric offers. "And even if I cannot, I should be glad to listen. After all you have done for us, you will always have a friend in Ishgard.”

“It is kind of you to say.” And a part of her wishes to confide in him. She knows Ser Aymeric possesses a kind heart and has been a true friend. But so too is he the Lord Speaker and she knows better than any the weight of duty. “I will be certain to remember that, but for now be assured naught is amiss.” She shakes her head; lies come all too easily. “It is nothing that a bit of rest will not fix.”

“Then I shall not keep you from it any longer.” Aymeric offers a graceful bow. “I shall look forward to seeing you upon the morrow, my friend.”

“And I as well.”

Ciardha watches him leave, her eyes more fixed upon the shadows of the alleys he passes than the man himself. She has not forgotten the dagger that found his flank just a moon past, but if they stalk him still they are absent this night. She lets out a small breath when he has rounded the steps.

“Tell me anything you want, I’ll keep your secrets. You’re safe with me.” The voice comes from Ciardha’s side, syllables drawn out that she need not turn to see Fray rolling their eyes. “What a bunch of hackneyed tripe.”

Ciardha is never certain if Fray is visible to any eyes save her own, so she turns her steps towards the Forgotten Knight and lets Fray follow suit. To simply stand out in the open makes her conspicuous, even if her careful sweep tells her there are few others around to see.

“If there were any, I expect Ser Americ may be one of them.”

“You don't actually believe that, do you?” This time it is her that Fray’s disbelief is directed at. “It’s easy enough to say, but put the truth in their hands, they’ll turn on you like any other. People can’t be trusted; when it comes down to it, they all just serve their own ends. They’ll betray you in a heartbeat before they bleed for you. No one bleeds to protect a weapon.”

“I may be little more than a tool, a weapon to be used for a cause that is just…” Ciardha shakes her head. She has seen Fray’s face, she knows who truly speaks these words. “But one does not discard a valuable tool all the same.”

“And what about a fake one?”

Ciardha’s steps halt.

“You put on a brave face, but it's not your real face, is it? ‘Ciardha’ is just some delusion you’ve dreamed up and managed to convince others really exists. You talk about telling the truth? How about telling them the real truth?”

“You know I cannot.”

“Because no one would want a murderer. What would your Scion friends think, to know their precious Warrior of light spied for the Garleans, killed for them, even? That you were the thread that began unravelling the Doman resistance until the entire thing fell apart. That poor little Mizu–”

“Shut up!" Ciardha’s voice snaps ice cold as the ground beneath her feet. Fray only laughs.

“That’s right, keep on running. Keep hiding the truth.”

Ciardha slams the wooden door shut between them. Even if she knows better than to think she can outrun her own shadow.

Fray's last words linger in her ears.

When you get tired of it all... I’ll be waiting.

#2024xivwrite #xiv ciardha #t: hw patch

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emeraldxphoenix · 4 months

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The thing that's been making @victoriousfidelity nervous all day:

They don’t bear repeating, the things Loki has done to earn back the mad Titan’s trust. Sure, their hands were never clean to start with – almost every Asgardian has fought battles aplenty, the trickster more than most – but the depths they sink to are even lower than those grazed on Sakaar. This time there is no pleasure to distract the mind of a capricious dictator, no fancy spells or flirtatious winks; there is only the cause, only war. Loki deliberately does not count the creatures they slaughter.

Even more deliberately, they do not think of the brand burned into their upper thigh, of the jagged wounds across their back, and the tongue cut from their mouth: the punishment Thanos had insisted was necessary, and which Corvus had gleefully delivered. When it was over the Titan had gazed down upon his adopted ‘child’, voice gravely and tender as he promised the final part of their penance: oblivion, once all the stones are obtained – along with half the universe. And with tear-filled eyes, Loki had thanked him for it.

Their memories are hazy after that, though they are filled with enough pain and killing to make Loki grateful for it. It isn’t until the trickster, now clad in black and gold and dried blood, is sent to Midgard with the Ebony Maw that their thoughts become coherent once more. Maw doesn’t like them one bit. Their one-time torturer, now adopted brother, regards them with open distaste born from their own years of faithful service compared to Loki’s faithless few months. When they make planetfall, the creature binds them and leaves them on the ship, having already served their purpose as an ally with experience of Midgard. In the end, it turns out to be what saves them.

Except ‘saves’ isn’t quite the right word for it when safety is so fleeting. Because Thanos finds them all – Loki, the time stone, the idiots who’ve been dragged along in its wake – and swiftly bends them to his will, claiming the stone for himself and abandoning everyone else except the trickster to die on Titan while they travel to Midgard.

Their single, gossamer chance looms close.

On arrival they are bombarded. Supposedly ‘Earth’s mightiest heroes’, yet they fight like panicked children. Each one hurtling themselves at Thanos in a disorganised frenzy; each one powerless against the stones’ might. It's the perfect distraction: silently, Loki conceals themselves and a duplicate takes their place. Only the witch appears to match him, but her devastating victory – so briefly a moment of glimmering hope to the god – is short-lived. There is no true victory to be had, not while Thanos lives and holds the time stone in his grasp. Everything, it seems, rests on Loki Odinson Laufeyson Thanosson Friggason.

Black boots take one silent, deadly step. Somewhere in the distance is the sound of their brother, of their wife, angry and fighting – or maybe it’s all in their head – but they can’t afford to be distracted, not now. Another step. The end looms closer. Unflinchingly, the Titan crushes the robot skull and grasps his final trophy. Another step, another life snuffed out. Another step, and a moment of admiration for the stone. Another step, and a surge of power as it joins its brothers in the confines of the gauntlet.

Now. Before it is too late.

A flash of emerald eyes and they are teleported astride Thanos’ shoulder, the image of their duplicate fading away as they yank the giant’s head back by his brow ridge and viciously slice a dagger across his exposed throat. There is no exchange of words or looks, not with Loki’s tongue gone and their fingers in Thanos’ eyes, but the god doesn’t doubt for a moment that their ‘master’ knows the identity of his murderer. Black lips split in an insane grin, they slice again, and again, until magenta drips from their fingers and coats the ground before them, until the body of the once-great Titan wavers and begins to overbalance.

It is once he has fallen, neck half the thickness it once was, purple skin drenched in blood, that the god turns their attention to the gauntlet. Lying in the dirt at the end of the dead Titan’s arm, the gold glimmers, stones whispering invitingly. There had been no plans beyond this point, no hopes or dreams or desires… but a careful spell loosens the glove from Thanos’ hand enough to release it. The things they could do with those stones. Loki, ever the survivor, ever the opportunist, slips their hand inside.

#blood tw #murder tw #death tw #violence tw #fighting tw #torture tw #dismemberment tw #weapons tw #please please tell me if i missed one #hope everyone enjoys 🙃#victoriousfidelity #v: variant

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bridgertonbabe · 1 year

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Bridgerton Characters on The Traitors

So after binge-watching the first series of The Traitors Australia and reigniting my intense love for the show (after first watching The Traitors UK), naturally I began to wonder how the characters of Bridgerton would fare in this set-up. In no particular order...

Francesca (and let me tell you now, with 100% confidence, whether she's a faithful or a traitor; she's going to win)

Faithful: naturally she'd be a one of the quieter members but she'd know within a couple of days of shrewdly watching everyone who the traitors among them were. She's not going to battle to make her voice heard but she is careful in who she shares her suspicions with; she doesn't want her opinions to be too loud and get back to the traitors and be murdered in the night as a consequence. She's far too stealthy and would probably drip the seeds of who she believes a traitor is to a louder faithful so they might be murdered instead, allowing her a clear path to the final.

Traitor: the coolest, calmest, most collected Bridgerton character; she doesn't even bat an eye when the host selects her as a traitor. She is razor sharp in her strategy and planning; she isn't just ten steps ahead of the faithfuls, she's also ten steps ahead of her fellow cohorts. She perfectly assesses who she can trust among the other players, who will take the fall, who can be manipulated, who can get themselves banished without her even having to pull any strings. Even if her name were to be raised at the round table, she'd remain nonchalant and manage to talk the suspicion away and turn everyone's vote towards someone else.

Michael

Faithful: it's Michael Stirling; he's sticking around for longer than some of the other (straight) male contestants would like. He's an asset in challenges and keeps morale up. He'd either be murdered by the traitors because they know he'd never be voted out otherwise OR he'd be banished purely based on his incredibly likeable and charismatic persona and the others believing because of his affable nature that no one would suspect him to be a traitor in a case of reverse psychology.

Traitor: the reason stated above why he might end up voted out is the same reason he would make for a great traitor; he's too damn affable for anyone to immediately suspect - though that's not to say they wouldn't eventually identify him. He'd charm his way into every player's good books so they'd be less inclined to vote for him, plus he'd possess the gift of the gab to convince everyone he wasn't a traitor and lead them down the trail of believing a different person is playing against them.

Penelope

Faithful: using her wallflower abilities of quiet observation and study, she'd pick up on comments and behaviour of others and come to the correct conclusions of who the traitors are. She doesn't always speak at the banishments but when she's confident in her opinion she makes her voice heard and everyone listens when she does. Her downfall would either come at the hands of the traitors murdering her when they realise she's on to them OR the other faithfuls finding her quiet intelligence suspicious and believing her capable of being a traitor because of it.

Traitor: it's Lady Whistledown herself we're talking about here; she's definitely making it all the way to the final. She's gets a kick out of all the power she possesses in traitors tower and loves analysing and thinking through all the choices she has to wisely make. She makes careful note of how every player is planning to vote and knows the right things to say to instigate a change of vote if needs be. Her only stumbling block would be if she reached the final and was challenged by a faithful she had made a close bond with; only then would her mask slip as emotions got the better of her as she pleaded her case in a last ditch attempt to claim the money for herself.

Colin

Faithful: while some could write him off for going with the flow, Colin is more observant and astute than people give him credit for. Sure, he does tend to go with the group majority if he believes there's probable cause at banishments, but he's also not afraid to kick off a discussion if he has a strong suspicion of who a traitor could be. The traitors would hold off on murdering him as he proves to be an all-rounder in the challenges but potentially they'd underestimate him and find themselves banished by his hands.

Traitor: being personable, he'd easily ingratiate himself with all of the players and secure his safety by simply being well-liked among the group. He thinks on his feet and outsmarts the faithfuls on several occasions, however if accused he might lose his cool and become too defensive and get himself banished as a result.

Eloise

Faithful: gets in way over her head coming up with umpteen theories for every single player being a traitor and connecting dots that aren't actually there to fit in with her thoughts. She'd dissect every last word anyone has uttered and turns the banishment discussions into interrogations as she goes about getting answers. Her downfall would end up as a result of her own doing as she relentlessly insists on a single theory for who the traitors are, hammering on and on but being so narrow-minded and obsessed with her theory being right that her behaviour raises suspicions of the other players (even if one of the names she's raised was an actual traitor, she's end up doing that traitor a favour simply because nobody is taking her crazed ranting seriously).

Traitor: as big a game as she would talk, Eloise wouldn't make it to the end as a traitor. Trying to big-brain the entire game and keeping ten steps ahead of the faithfuls would overwhelm her and keep her up at night as she tries to think through every last game play possible. She'd do well for awhile but eventually other players would pick on up something being amiss with her, whether's she talking a little too much and pushing forward other names for banishment or how she acts a little furtive at the round table. She'd also be a traitor that would convince herself that another traitor is going to betray her (despite her cohort showing no signs of it) and get them banished before she believes they do the same to her, but end up shooting herself into the foot for getting rid of her teammates so prematurely.

Phillip

Faithful: his role as a faithful will go one of two ways; either he'll be an early banishment OR he'll be one of the last faithful standing. Either option is purely down to Phillip's incredibly reserved nature and in a big social game like The Traitors he'd probably keep to himself for the sake of his social battery, but when he does get involved in discussions he mainly operates as a listener who nods along and the few times he does speak he might come across a little awkward. As a result the other players might find his behaviour questionable and believe it's a sign of a traitor and banish him early on, however, being so quiet he could alternatively end up fading into the background and not being on anyone's radar until the numbers are so small that everyone has to be put under the microscope and only then would the other players truly consider his potential to be a traitor; a consideration that would most likely translate into his banishment because nobody had ever suspected him prior.

Traitor: has the potential to be a dark horse as a traitor due to his stoic persona. Though a quieter character, when he does open up and voice his thoughts the other players are intrigued by what he has to say and take his suggestions seriously. He wouldn't confront anyone at the banishment but he would suggest to other players throughout the day the names of people he has some suspicions of, but making it conversational to see what the other players' thoughts of them were. He'd be more inclined to kill off the louder and more formidable players simply because if ever challenged he knows he can hold his own against softer-spoken people who don't raise their voices compared to those who are more frank and intimidating.

Kate

Faithful: is of course going to make for a rather formidable traitor-hunter due to her incredibly competitive nature. She'd definitely be one the voices leading the way for the rest of the players and also pipe up during banishments to speak on behalf of the group of who the majority has their suspicions on. She might not always be bang on the money but the second she correctly identifies a traitor and has them banished the traitors will be signing her death warrant. She'd be too influential of a faithful to keep around - though alternatively because of her voice having so much sway, other faithfuls might believe her to be a traitor boldly doing her manipulation out in the open and she could end up banished as a result.

Traitor: would love, love, love becoming a traitor and outfoxing the faithful. Similarly in her role as a faithful, she would definitely end up as leader among the traitors - though god forbid she and Anthony were traitors together because they'd for sure butt heads over any decision they were about to make. She would use her cunning to manipulate the way the voting goes in the banishment room while also having a tend and befriend method of securing her trust among the faithful.

Anthony

Faithful: he and Kate are two sides of the same coin when it comes to playing any sort of game; they're there to win. Like Kate he would be at the forefront of round table discussions, but in comparison to Kate he would get in a bit too deep and lose his cool during confrontations and accusations. His downfall would most likely be leading the charge of a banishment with so much confidence that he identified a traitor, only for the banished player to reveal themselves as a faithful; as a result, the rest of the group lose confidence in him and believe the reason he pushed so strongly was because he's a faithful desperate to keep eyes away from him.

Traitor: would definitely have more cool as a traitor but still not as much as Kate. He would enjoy the one-upmanship against the faithful every time he steered them in the wrong direction at banishment, though his confidence could potentially grow into arrogance and lead to a slip-up as a result which would lead to his undoing.

(Bonus Kanthony note: imagine if at the start one of was a traitor and the other a faithful, but the latter has suspicions on the other right from the off. As vocal as the faithful is in their convictions, the other players dismiss it because of how obsessive they become in what almost seems like a vendetta, meanwhile the traitor simply points the finger back at them for correctly calling them out. They're so frustrated with one another; that is until the traitor is the last traitor standing and must recruit a faithful and damn it there's only one single name that comes to mind in who they're going to recruit because it's better to have their adversary onside than against them.)

Sophie

Faithful: she's never going to get herself banished, let's be real, with all the other faithfuls willing to turn a blind eye to any suspicion they might have of her because she's just so god damn lovable. While she doesn't always contribute at round table discussions for banishment, she is stubborn in her thoughts of who she believes the traitors are and isn't going to go along with the pack mentality if she believes the target in question isn't actually a traitor. She sticks to her guns but rather than being deemed suspicious, other faithful respect her for her opinions and might side with her theory instead. If she doesn't make it to the very end it's because the traitors have killed her off to shock the rest of the players; however the faithful would be out for blood to avenge her and would end up banishing a traitor straight after her murder as a result.

Traitor: the Lady in Silver knows a thing or two about wearing a mask and keeping her identity secret, meaning she'd play a blinder as a traitor. Nobody would suspect her and as mentioned above, even if her name crossed people's minds, they'd ignore it in favour of a more likely candidate. While she is quietly calculating throughout the game, she could fall at the final hurdle if challenged during banishment. By that point towards the end of the game she might just be mentally exhausted from keeping up such a facade and she crumbles enough under pressure for the others to vote her out ahead of the final.

Benedict

Faithful: honestly, Ben's just there for a laugh, he's the least invested in hunting out traitors. Sure, he finds the game interesting and all the dynamics that come with it but he's more than happy to kick back and relax and watch the carnage unfold. He goes along with whatever way the group seems to be voting and while the arguing is a bit fun, when it gets too much he does speak up to remind everyone to calm down in order to keep the peace if he feels the group are coming across as cruel with all guns blazing towards certain players. He would potentially end up being banished merely because he never offers up opinions on who the traitors are and doesn't seem to take the game as seriously as the other faithfuls.

Traitor: one of the least likely to even want to be a traitor so how he ended up in this role is just as big a mystery to him, but okay bet. He has plenty of the Bridgerton charm to form alliances and build rapports with the faithfuls to secure his place, though he'd definitely find the strategising as a traitor difficult and feel guilty for manipulating the vote against a faithful as well as murdering people. As engaging as he is among the players, some of them might pick up on the pressure getting to him and banish him as a result; but actually, he's massively relieved and has a jovial smile on his face as he bids the players farewell after revealing he's a traitor.

Hyacinth

Faithful: literally her favourite part of the game is going from person to person and group to group gossiping and theorising on who the traitors could be. She's definitely not afraid to throw a name out at the table but equally she loves watching the accusations and lines of defence as it plays out in front of her and she's the most excited every time the banished player stands before them to reveal their identity. She would probably end up being used as a pawn by the traitors, knowing if any of them drip a name of suspicion into her ear that she's going to gleefully run off and circulate the name to the rest of the group.

Traitor: would probably struggle immediately after being selected to stop herself buzzing with obvious excitement over her newly bequeathed role, though she would last a bit longer than the very first day. As much as she would love playing the role of traitor, I think that love would be worn far too blatantly on her face e.g. watching everyone reacting to someone not coming down at breakfast and smirking with amusement because her actions are what have caused this fallout. She might talk her way out of the first accusation aimed her way but any additional slip-up would be her undoing.

Gareth

Faithful: more of a follower than a leader and is quite happy for others to pave the way to identify traitors. Even when he does sit and think on who the traitors could be, he begins to overthink everything and just thinks "fuck it" and instead opts to go with whoever everyone else is planning to vote for. He would definitely be susceptible to traitors manipulating him into voting and thinking a certain way and they wouldn't murder him because of it. However the fact he has nothing to contribute at the round table combined with him keeping a low profile within with the group might lead to his banishment.

Traitor: again wouldn't be too comfortable taking charge of the group but is happy and willing for someone else to step up to the plate. Once he's built up enough confidence in the role he would definitely be a risk-taker and with luck on his side would just about be able to pull off whatever plan he had enacted. However without luck on his side, his risk could instantly turn the tables on him and be voted out as a consequence.

Lucy

Faithful: is very focused on keeping tabs on who everyone votes for at every banishment. She would be able to remember it to jot down in a notebook back in her room and before she goes to bed she would analyse everyone's voting track trying to see if any patterns emerged or anything glaring jumped out at her, hoping this method might help identify the traitors. She'd also work out the logistics of why the traitors would kill off the faithfuls that they chose, going back to her notes to see if the recently deceased faithful was onto anyone voting-wise. If she were to make her note-taking known to the group and successfully identify a traitor as a result, then she would quickly become their next victim and not make it down to breakfast the following morning.

Traitor: much in the same analytical way, she would go about her role as a traitor by thinking of it as a game of numbers, weighing up the odds of every decision she made and how it would affect the game. She's affable enough to keep under the radar of suspicion, but her downfall would be because of her loyalty. Even if one of her fellow traitors was bound to end up banished by the end of the night, she wouldn't have it in her to vote them out and instead vote elsewhere; however not voting out a traitor would place suspicion right at her door and she would struggle to argue her way out of this line of thinking.

Gregory

Faithful: feels bad for voting for just about anyone and doesn't enjoy when everyone gangs up on a player to be banished. He never really knows who he's going to vote for ahead of the banishment and simply makes his mind up after the discussion at the round table has ended. While it's more likely the traitors would kill him off then him ending up banished by the group, if he lasted long enough he would be a contestant to have an eleventh hour crystalising moment when he pieces everything together and realises who the remaining traitors really are.

Traitor: he's not lasting long as a traitor and quite frankly he's glad when he's banished because it was far too stressful. He'd be incredibly nervous throughout his time as a traitor, resembling a shivering Bichon Frisé at any given moment, casting little room for doubt amongst the other players that he is one of the traitors.

Daphne

Faithful: loves a good challenge and definitely has her eye on the prize. Her suspicions would rest on how the other players were coming across emotionally throughout the game, if any of them seemed nervous or not particularly forthcoming with their thoughts and feelings on the game at hand. She'd also keep a close eye on how every person reacts when receiving a vote during banishment, keeping note if they survive the banishing or if they are voted out and revealed as a traitor, reflecting on anyone's votes who the ousted traitor seemed visibly moved by; and building up a case that another player could have been a traitor voting out their own. Has an equal chance of being murdered for being vocal in her observations as well as being banished for arguably planting seeds and pushing the voting in a certain direction.

Traitor: would make for an incredibly organised player and come to traitors tower with a three point plan for the following day that she plans on executing flawlessly and has no qualms in directing her fellow cohorts in their designated plan of action. While she would run a very tight ship, she could fall victim to a mutiny by her fellow traitors if they believed her incredible forward-thinking skills included stabbing them in the back at an opportune time.

Simon

Faithful: while he does enjoy the thrill of the game, he's fairly laid-back and lets others take the lead in hunting out traitors. He prefers to cast his vote on reasons backed by proof but as is the nature of the game, sometimes there isn't much of a choice but to follow a hunch. He's not particularly confident speaking at the round table with just how tense and finger-pointing the group can become but he would open up the start of deliberations if they had an unsuccessful streak of previous banishments and suggest they opt for another way of thinking since their current methods haven't been panning out. Is more likely to be voted out than murdered, purely being of a quieter nature than others and people believing him capable of pulling off the role of traitor.

Traitor: plays with a level of confidence that lowkey he didn't know he possessed and everything falls into place for him, giving him a very smooth run for good portion of the show's duration. However, the one thing that stresses him out the most are the banishments, particularly the deliberation at the round table. Nervous of becoming tongue-tied if faced with accusations, he has to mentally prepare himself and put on his best game face before entering the room. He'd keep as quiet as possible during the discussions with minimal chiming in but if accused he might end up defending himself a little too strongly for the faithful to truly believe he's one of them.

#i sure do love crossovers between two of my current obsessions lol #the traitors #bridgerton #francesca bridgerton #michael stirling #penelope featherington #colin bridgerton #eloise bridgerton #phillip crane #kate sharma #anthony bridgerton #sophie beckett #benedict bridgerton #hyacinth bridgerton #gareth st clair #lucy abernathy #gregory bridgerton #daphne bridgerton #simon basset

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thefivekins · 4 months

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(banner photography by Neil Burnell)

ORIGINS.

There once lived two cats, brothers named Cirrus and Nimbus. Hailing from an old village nestled in the highlands, they were sent on a perilous journey to find a new home for their kin on the dying breath of an oracle named Half Moon. Their travels were filled with hardship… not every cat that went with them survived. Still, they carried on with hope in their hearts, receiving guidance from the Badger of the Sea and whisperings of the Fae across the land.

After countless days on their paws, the travellers found it— an ancient stone circle that carried with it a powerful magic they had never felt before. And beyond that… their new home. The group settled on the open moorlands. The travellers looked to Cirrus and Nimbus as their first leaders, two brave cats that led them on a courageous journey to this sanctuary.

Though the siblings had differing ideas on how to lead. This caused many arguments and divisions within the group. Cirrus felt he was destined to lead and conquer the lands, while Nimbus felt doubtful of their abilities and wanted nothing short of peace. It wasn’t long before the cats split in two; Nimbus and his allies stayed in the moors while Cirrus and his allies left for the forest beyond.

The brothers, who had been so close before, became strained. Both groups caught the attention of stray cats in the area and within a few moons their numbers had grown. Nimbus, still full of doubt, welcomed new faces but stepped down as leader, giving the position to his mate Turtle. Cirrus became militant, only welcoming outsiders to protect himself and gain power. And despite every aggressive advance, Nimbus felt sympathy for their brother.

As the seasons marched on, so did the lives on the moor and in the forest. Cirrus had a son named Thunder; Nimbus, Turtle, and a kittypet named Bumble raised a trio of kits named Pebble, Owl, and Sparrow. A mysterious cat called Shadow took interest in the newcomers from her home in the marshes. So did Blueberry, Wilma, and George— a kittypet and a pair of barn cats. These four souls were met with hostility in the forest they once freely roamed. But the moors treated them with respect. They would all prove themselves to be important allies.

Cirrus became increasingly bitter, increasingly paranoid. He exiled any cat who dared to challenge him or simply failed to meet his standards. Many of them went to the moors in response, including his own son. And he was furious.

Conflict rose again and again. Cirrus continued to get himself in trouble; there were even times Nimbus convinced the moor cats to help him. But the task was thankless, and finally, Nimbus’s faith in their brother began to fade. Destiny or not, Cirrus had to be stopped— and Nimbus was going to be the first to try.

One night, the cats of the moors and the forest met under a full moon. The tension of battle could be felt thick in the air. Nevertheless, Nimbus pleaded with Cirrus one last time. He refused. With a single command, the cats were at each other’s throats.

Blood soaked the grounds of the Four Trees that night. Brother fought brother, mother fought daughter, mate fought mate. It all came to a crashing end when Cirrus, blinded by rage, landed a killing blow on Nimbus. It was shocking enough to make him beg for the fighting to stop as he became fully aware of what he’d done. And as the screeches and caterwauls faded into the night, his weeping was all that was heard.

As the bloodied cats sheathed their claws, something changed around them. The air became cold, a strange breeze fluttered through their pelts. They watched in utter surprise as the spirits of the slain left their bodies right in front of their eyes; they were made of stars. Frozen in place, they all watched as even more descended from the night sky. And once the hollow was filled with glimmering eyes, they spoke:

“Unite or die.”

These were the cats of the StarKin— spirits who were watching over the land— and they demanded peace. They believed that war would tear them apart, that the living were destined for so much more. They told the cats to split into five groups across the territories, and if they did, the StarKin would protect them furthermore.

The living obliged. Wilma became Star Wind of the moors, Shadow became Star Shadow of the wet woodland, Thunder became Star Thunder of the forest, Blueberry became Star River, and Cirrus became Star Sky.

Sky’s position came from the Stars as a form of punishment; he had to start his kin from the ground up, and if he ever went back to his old ways, severe consequences would await him.

The five kins were born that night, and all these moons later they still prevail.

#discord wcrp #warrior cats roleplay #warrior cats rp #wcrp #wc rp #warrior cats #wc #wc rewrite #the five kins wcrp #tfk ; lore

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senditcolton · 1 year

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Masterpiece (sneak peek)

a/n: the fact that I’ve had this fic planned since August of 2022 and thought this moment would take place much later in their story, but then the universe/this year’s playoffs were like “nah bitch, if you want to write angst, we are going to make sure you write angst.” So, here we are.

Nate felt awful. Worse than awful but that was the only word that came to him the post-game haze.

If he were to rank the terrible feelings of his life, he would put this moment near the top of the list. Yes, even higher than the Colorado Avalanche’s 48-point season.

In a way, his hurt was understandable. His team just lost the first round of the Stanley Cup Playoffs. No one was supposed to feel happy after that. But for Nate… he felt like he had lost so much more than that in this season.

He lost his way. He lost his faith. He lost his girl.

It still stung, more than Nate would ever admit. It had been almost 6 months since Margot walked out of their shared apartment. It had been only a few weeks since Nate saw the photo she posted; the photo of her wrapped up in another man’s arms.

Part of him wanted to place the blame on her for his performance on the ice. Like the mere idea of her with someone else sent him into a downward spiral which affected his play. But he knew that she held no blame. Not for his performance in the playoffs. Not for his incapability to move on like she did.

It was all on him.

That didn’t stop it from hurting.

He releases another deep sigh before heading out of the locker room, a room that he won’t inhabit until the beginning of next season. As he steps out, Nate locks eyes with Gabe, patiently waiting to console the boys as they left. Being the Captain even while injured.

Gabe shoots him a sympathetic look before opening his arms to him. Nate gladly accepts the hug, comforted by his long-time friend and teammate.

“We’ll get it next year, yeah?” Gabe says, patting Nate on the back.

“Wish you were out there with us,” Nate replies, muttering the words into Gabe’s shoulder.

“I wish I was too.”

They finally break apart, Gabe continuing to talk; about next year, about how the boys fought till the end, about how it was an intense matchup and they gave it their all. Nate was only half-listening, battling with the conflicting feelings of not wanting this season to end but also wanting to forget the ending as fast as possible.

His eyes wander, looking over the grey brick walls, following the trail of the concrete floor. His gaze finally settles on the group of girls at the other end of the hallway.

It was the Seattle wives and girlfriends. The mere fact that they were allowed down here gave them away, but if there was any uncertainty as to who they were, their matching black leather jackets erased that. Jackets with the last names of their partners emblazoned on the back.

Margot always liked being a part of the jacket designing. She had a hand in all the Avalanche WAG jackets the years that she was with Nate. That was another part of this year’s playoffs that Nate didn’t even realize he was missing until he was confronted with the absence.

Not being able to hear Margot’s French-Canadian accent, talking about fabric and color and design. Not being able to see her excitement when she came home and modeled her new jacket for him. Not being able to listen to her as she scrolled through social media to see the other jackets and place her judgements on them, always declaring that the Avalanche girls had the best, even though maybe this team was a close second.

She would have liked the Seattle jackets. Black leather with the last names repeating down the back in a slightly different fabric.

Nate looks at the names, reading them off in his head: Donato, Larsson, Oleksiak, Megna, Schultz. He continues to move down the line until one name gives him pause.

Grubauer.

Interesting. Philipp didn’t mention seeing anyone the last time Nate talked to him, back when Seattle came to Colorado in the regular season. Granted, that was back in March. And if Nate was being honest, he didn’t really know how long a girl had to wait before she could claim a jacket.

He keeps his eyes on the group, watching as the players step out of the locker room and watching as they reunite with their partners. Their excitement makes his heart sting a little more, knowing that their joy was directly correlated with his sorrow.

Nate sees Philipp emerge from the locker room, his suit back on and a plush salmon toy in his hands. He has a smile on his face and Nate watches as that smile seems to grow brighter when he sees the girl wearing his name. When Philipp reaches her, he engulfs her in a giant hug, picking her up and spinning her around. The action causes a laugh fall from the girl’s lips and when Nate hears that sound echo down the hallway, the knife that was already lodged in his heart plunged deeper.

No. It’s impossible. It must be his heightened and tangled emotions that were twisting this stranger’s laugh into something so familiar.

A laugh that sounded just like the one that used to bounce off the walls of his Denver apartment.

A laugh that he hadn’t heard in six months.

Nate keeps his eyes locked to the pair, wanting to desperately be proven wrong, praying to every god there was that he was indeed mistaken. But the Philipp finally sets her, the girl in the black leather jacket with ‘Grubauer’ plastered down the back, down on the floor, Nate finally sees her face.

And it’s Margot.

His Margot.

And he can’t tear his eyes away, even when they lean into each other. And he watches – in heartbreak, in fear, in anger – as Margot kisses Philipp.

She kisses him. In Nate’s arena. In Nate’s city. In front of Nate’s eyes. The same way she used to kiss Nate.

The haze that had consumed him since the final buzzer grew heavier, darker, turning from grey rainclouds into a swirling thunderstorm, his mind going a mile a minute until it finally settles on one phrase:

How fucking dare she?

Nate can feel his knuckles tighten, his jaw clench, his breath becoming more staccato. It only increases when he watches Philipp playfully tap Margot on the nose with that stupid stuffed salmon, causing another giggle to fall from her lips.

“Nate?”

He can barely even hear Gabe over the sound of his heart pounding in his ears as he continues to watch the scene unfold in front of him. He shouldn’t be watching. But he couldn’t tear his eyes away even if he wanted to.

Out of the corner of one eye, Nate can see Gabe fall into place next to him, his captain’s eyes taking in Nate’s current state and then following his star centers gaze down the hallway until his own blue eyes fall on Margot and Philipp.

And then understands perfectly.

“Don’t do anything stupid kid,” Gabe hisses to him and Nate wants to retort that he isn’t going to but his thoughts can’t seem to fall into place as he continues to watch Margot intertwine her hands with Philipp’s. “EJ, I need your help.”

Before Nate can even react or even protest, EJ has looped his arm around his shoulders and is practically dragging Nate in the opposite direction, pulling him down the hallway and towards the parking garage, chattering in his ear. None of EJ’s words register in Nate’s brain. No, it’s just that one phrase still playing on repeat.

How dare she?

Out of all the people she could have, she chose his former teammate. Margot chose to be with Philipp, out of everyone in the godforsaken city of Seattle, she chose him. And she moved on so fucking quick. It had been less than six months since she left Nate.

Since she left him, Nate remembers, his anger twisting around that fact. She was the one that left. She was the one who say waiting for him to come from a road trip with a packed suitcase sitting next to her on the bed. Just so she could break his heart in person.

And now, she’s made the decision to waltz back into Nate’s life with another man’s last name plastered on her back. As if breaking his heart wasn’t enough. No, she had to tear it out and shatter it into a million pieces.

How fucking dare she?

#nicole writes #masterpiece fic #i'm very excited!!!#but yeah like i mentioned this years playoffs really hit the margot x nate feels #if you want to scream about it more... my askbox is always open!#i hope you enjoy

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