.✦ ݁˖ bella ˖ ݁✦. @orithyia-eriphyle - Tumblr Blog

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── masterlist

— welcome to my blog!

note that some of these works are old and are not the best.

#masterlist #blog masterlist #fanfic #writer

the anvil's dragon - m. targaryen

(Maekar Targaryen x Fem!Dragon!Reader)

Summary: Upon the rising Blackfyre rebellion, the crown seeks allies. A marriage is proposed between you and Prince Maekar. Despite strong reluctance on both sides, a growing fondness begins to form.

Warnings: 18+, MDNI, swearing, smut, pnv, fingering, oral (f!receiving), no use of (y/n), 2nd person pov, canon-divergent, slightly ooc maekar, lowkey yearning maekar. a better glimpse into reader's personality. first smut i'm scared. not proof-read. we die like men.

WC: 7.7k

A part of 'The Last Dragon' universe.

Maekar Targaryen was not a happy man.

This was known across the realm.

Prince Maekar did not earn the epithet of “The Anvil” for naught.

astrayapple

Stupid Tornado Sirens (SMAU)

Relationships: poly skz x gn!reader

Genre: mildly angst, storms, temporary scare, polyamory, established relationship

Summary: When you're home to visit your family (in Tornado Alley), you get woken up by the tornado sirens. What better way to spend your time now that you're up than by texting your boyfriends?

A/N: HAHA inspired by recent events <3 as a Midwest Girlie TM tornadoes DO BE a thing

I did research to find out what other countries get tornados and let me tell you what- many DONT and NONE OF THEM get the sheer number or SEVERITY we do! Fun fact for ya!!!

(SMAU masterlist)

#skz #stray kids #skz smau #stray kids smau #poly skz #poly skz x reader #skz x reader #stray kids x reader #skz x gn reader #stray kids x gn reader

dragon in the north - c. stark

(HotD x Fem!Dragon!Reader) (Cregan Stark x Fem!Dragon!Reader)

Summary: Your presence amongst House Targaryen begins to wane due to the growing tension amongst its family members, due to long-standing instability. Long loyal to the crown, you become increasingly disillusioned with the decisions of its rulers and the mounting tensions surrounding the line of succession. Seeking distance, you find a sense of peace in the North, forming an unexpected bond with Lord Cregan Stark. But as events continue to unfold, you are forced to confront where your true loyalties lie— and whether you can continue to remain on the sidelines.

Warnings: Spoilers(?), suggestive, potentially ooc, based on both show and book lore, lots of build-up.

WC: 3k

Part 2(?)

This story is a part of my 'The Last Dragon' AU.

#cregan stark #hotd x reader #hotd #house of the dragon #cregan stark x reader #got #asoiaf #asoiaf x reader #a song of ice and fire #game of thrones #reader insert #fem!reader #cregan stark x fem!reader #akotsk #akotsk x reader #a knight of the seven kingdoms

the-darklings

can we get more of ls x aerion & caraxes pls?🙏🏻

INCLUDES: stark!reader, dragons survived the dance!au, tw: aerion & caraxes (when you match each other's freaks 🥺), obsessive behaviour from a man and his emotional support war criminal nuke lizard, caraxes being a #1 hater (not of you lol), unhealthy co-dependency with a reptile, probable violations of OSHA safety regulations re: dragon handling, prince who has never heard of the concept of personal boundaries, author rawdogging dragon bonds, dragon-enabled stalking, the worst case of "my dog likes you so I guess you're coming home with me" ever recorded, features a dragon who is a better wingman than any of your friends and he WILL make you feel bad about it. I had way too much fun with this and I love these two messy bitches, enjoy!

The bond isn't a metaphor, not for Aerion and not for Caraxes. Some riders are simply closer to their dragons than others. It's not we understand each other. It's I feel his hunger in my jaw, I feel his rage in my spine, when he wants to kill I taste blood. The bond is visceral and it doesn't lie.

He knew Caraxes wanted you before he knew he wanted you. Felt it like a sickness—this pulling sensation in his chest every time you walked past the pit entrance. Thought he was going mad until he went down and found Caraxes pacing, neck low, nostrils flaring at the air like he was trying to track prey. The dragon's want hit him like a fist to the gut. Immediate. Certain. Sexual. Her.

The first time he admitted to himself that he wanted you—not wanted to have you the way he'd had other girls, quick and forgettable in dark corners, but wanted you the way Caraxes wants to hoard his kills, the way a man wants water after days in the sun, the way he wants to own something—the dragon screamed. Just screamed, thrashed his tail hard enough to crack flagstones, and Aerion had to brace himself against the wall because the want was pouring through the bond so hard he couldn't see, couldn't think past the image of you under him, throat bared, his name in your mouth.

He didn't try to starve it out. Why would he? Aerion has never been interested in denial. He fed it. Let it grow teeth. Spent two weeks trailing you through the keep like a predator tracking prey, learning your routine, cataloguing every place you touched, every person you smiled at, every moment you were alone. Caraxes paced the whole time, restless and eager, and Aerion felt it echo in his own body. The need to get closer, to corner you somewhere private, to make you look at him the way you look at his uncle.

The bond means he feels everything Caraxes feels about you. The dragon's satisfaction when you're near, a warm purr in Aerion's chest. The possessive mine-ours-keep that rolls through both of them until Aerion's hands shake with the effort of not reaching for you in front of witnesses. The hunger—and it is hunger, visceral and greedy, not for food but for you. The way you smell. The shape of your mouth. The curve of your throat. The sounds you'd make.

Sometimes he'll be in the yard, watching you talk to Baelor, and he'll feel Caraxes's claws flexing, the dragon's fury bleeding into his own until his vision whites out at the edges. The want to take you. To walk across that yard, grab you by the wrist, drag you somewhere dark and private and put his mouth on you until you forget Baelor's name. He doesn't do it. Not yet. But not because he feels guilty, because he's patient. Because taking you in front of an audience would be fast and he wants it slow. Wants you to come to him. Wants you to choose.

He hasn't stopped trying to control it. He's stopped pretending he wants to control it. The want is there. The want is good. It makes him sharper. Meaner. More focused. Every moment you're in a room together feels like standing on a blade's edge, and he's learned to love that feeling—the anticipation, the restraint that's really just a countdown to the moment you finally break and reach for him first.

Guilt? He doesn't feel it. Why should he? You're not Baelor's yet. The betrothal isn't sealed. You haven't said the words in a sept. And even if you do... well. Aerion has never cared about vows. You could be married to his uncle and he'd still want you. Would still take you if you let him. Dragons don't stop wanting something just because someone else has a claim. They take. They keep. It's in their blood, in their nature.

#aerion targaryen x reader #aerion brightflame #akotsk #aerion targaryen #aerion x reader #aerion x you #aerion x y/n #aerion fanfiction #akotsk x reader #aerion targaryen x you

PLS PLS PLS MORE DRAGON! READER I BEG I BEG I BEG

I'm so glad you're interested!

I made a background post here.

There will definitely be more to come from this reader in the near future!

#asoiaf x reader #asoiaf #a song of ice and fire

the last dragon - info

A further look into the reader from this fic. I would love to expand on this character further. I have multiple ideas regarding her role in events such as 'A Dance with Dragons,' 'A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms,' the Blackfyre Rebellions, and even the events of Game of Thrones.

⊹₊⟡⋆ Reader ⋆⟡₊⊹

— (Name) Balaeryon —

Origin: Old Valyria

Born: Winter of 120 BC. 18 during the Doom.

Race: Valyrian

the last dragon - a. targaryen

Aerion Targaryen x Fem!Dragon!Reader

Summary: The last Targaryen dragon died under the rule of King Aegon III. However, a young woman with a unique, intricate power remained amongst the house’s self-induced downfall. Her existence had first been noted long before Aegon the Conqueror united the Seven Kingdoms, and she continues to play a key role throughout the Kingdoms. Despite her immense power, Aerion Targaryen’s infatuation may prove stronger.

Warnings: Cursing. The reader is described as having lilac eyes. Slightly ooc Aerion. Lowkey yearning Aerion. Not proofread!!

My writing is entirely my own work!!! Fuck AI

WC: 2.4k

The Doom of Old Valyria was a well-known story amongst those in Westeros privileged enough to seek an education. The Citadel’s maesters and the noble houses of the Seven Kingdoms know the Doom to be an event that shifted the tides of their histories. But none knew the great effects of this event better than House Targaryen.

Aerion Targaryen studied his House’s histories as if the parchments on which they were written were to be burned the next day. The young Prince held a deep-seated resentment towards his greater ancestors. If not for them, the house of the dragon would still have its dragons. Aerion felt a distant ache in his chest since he was a young child. As if his body were calling for something he had never had the privilege of knowing.

However, in the annals of Westeros, few figures were spoken of with such reverence and unease as you were. Your ties to Westeros ran deeper than any living person. House Targaryen respected you, whilst the great Maesters of the Citadel feared you. You were fire made flesh. You were a dragon that required neither saddle nor command. You remain mostly unknown to the smallfolk. But to House Targaryen, you were studied and held high above even the greatest lords of the Seven Kingdoms.

As the existence of dragons ceased to exist, your presence became fainter along with them. King Daeron II was the last Targaryen to have spoken with you during the events of the first Blackfyre Rebellion. Aerion’s father, Maekar, and his uncle, Baelor, had told him many a story of your great, beastly form lighting the rebel army ablaze as they fought.

“The she-beast’s size rivals that of the Black Dread himself.” His father would tell him when he was a younger boy.

Many members of the Targaryen line held a certain infatuation with you and your mere existence. However, none were ever as enthralled as Aerion was.

He did not simply admire you— he revered you as proof of everything he believed himself to be. Where others in his line saw you as a curiosity or a political weapon, Aerion saw validation. You were Old Valyria in its purest form. A dragon wearing human flesh.

He spent countless nights mulling over your existence. Someone as great as you surely was not dead. He had heard whispers of you taking refuge in the Free Cities of Essos whenever you grew tired of the political mindgames of Westeros. Regardless, Aerion Brightflame would come face-to-face with you one day. He made that promise to himself long ago.

Aerion had awoken long before the servants came knocking at his door to dress him. He drank in his appearance in his bedchamber mirror. His hair was unkempt; He had been tossing in his sleep. He awoke that morning, his body drenched in his own sweat. He did not feel ill, nor could he recall any negative dreams. But Aerion knew, deep down, that something was not right. He went through the motions of the morning in a daze, his mind elsewhere. After breaking his fast, he made for the training grounds of Summerhall. The only available man at the moment was a poor squire boy. Aerion bristled at the thought of having to train with someone he deemed to be lesser than him. Although he thought most people to be lesser than him.

He hardly registered the crack of the squire's armor against his training sword. The angry prince seemed to be even more irritable than usual— if that were possible. He brought down blow after blow on the younger man, despite the squire already having fallen to his knees.

“For fucks sake, Aerion! The boy yielded already!” The prince halted in his movements at the sound of his father’s gruff voice resonating throughout the training yard.

Aerion did not respond to his father. However, he stepped back from the squire; the young boy was quick to bow and scamper off elsewhere.

Aerion turned towards his father, the elder prince wearing his usual scowl. “Next time I see you beat a squire half to death, I’ll have you sent North to take the black,” Maekar stated, his mouth curling into a snarl.

Aerion faltered slightly. His confidence tended to waver in the face of his battle-hardened father. Still, Aerion brushed off his father’s threat. “What is it you require of me now, Father?” He questioned, knowing his father would not seek him out without reason.

Maekar glowered down at his son, “Return to your chambers and begin packing. We leave for King’s Landing at nightfall.” He stated.

Aerion’s brows furrowed, “Whatever for?”

“Your Grandsire has called upon us. He need not give a reason.” Maekar replied, though he held clear dissonance for the out-of-the-blue summons.

Aerion held his father’s gaze for a moment. “I refuse to be paraded in front of a court of noble pigs,” he spat.

Maekar swats the side of his head, “You best be on with yourself, boy. Do not make me force you into a carriage like a whining child.”

Aerion worked his jaw in frustration. He had no desire to heed his grandsire’s call, but he had decided that this was not a battle worth fighting with his father. Thus, Aerion shrugged past the older man, “As you command.” And he made his way back to the armory to shed his training gear.

Aerion’s face remained one of stone as he and the rest of his family were announced to the court upon their arrival. He wished for nothing more than to wash and fall into a deep slumber. His body ached from the weeks-long ride from Summerhall to King’s Landing.

He followed his father and Daeron into the throne room, his younger siblings following close behind. He greeted the King with a bow, along with the rest of his family. He took note that the throne room was rather empty. The usual members of the King’s small council were absent. There were no high lords or ladies watching from the sides of the room. Aerion quickly came to realize that the only members standing in the room were those of House Targaryen itself.

Except for a single woman, he did not recognize.

The woman stood off to the side of the King, right next to his uncle, Baelor. Aerion took in her figure. She was adorned in rather revealing clothing. Although it held an intricate sort of elegance. Her body was draped in deep, crimson jewels. Silver chains dangled from her dragon-horn headpiece. Her skirts were thin and flowy. Her chest was covered in a silver breastplate adorned with the same red jewels.

Aerion’s gaze caught her own. His body ran cold as her lilac eyes locked on his. Aerion had never met this woman before, yet he knew who she was. He knew why his family was summoned.

King Daeron’s voice rang out through the room, “My family, I am happy to see you all in good health.” His aging face spread into a smile, “Though, I am sure you are wondering why I have called you all here.” He stated.

Aerion could feel the thrum of heat roam up his spine as he listened, his eyes never leaving the woman’s form. King Daeron drawled on, making his gratefulness of your presence known, before finally introducing you to his kin.

Aerion’s heart beat rapidly against his ribcage as you stepped forward. You were not wearing typical footwear. Rather, your feet were wrapped in twisted metal sandals of some sort. The tops of them reaching your knees.

You bowed your head slightly, your hands clasped in front of you. “I apologize for the sudden intrusion upon your household. However, I am pleased to be meeting the current members of House Targaryen for the first time.” You spoke gently.

Aerion’s mouth ran dry at the sound of your voice. He imagined it was the closest he would ever get to hearing the voice of the gods.

You climbed down the steps farther to come face-to-face with Maekar. “My Prince, it has been many moons since we last spoke.” You spoke.

“As I recall, you were too busy dousing the rebel army in dragonflame for us to speak properly.” His father replied, rather plainly.

Aerion noted the smirk on your lips at his father’s reply. He felt envy cling to his spine. He wanted for nothing more than to be on the receiving end of your gaze once more.

The night of his family’s arrival in King’s Landing, they had feasted. The King deemed it a celebration of Old Valyria.

Aerion had never quite been rendered silent throughout his life. He always had a quip or an insult weighing heavily on his tongue. However, he remained silent throughout the feast.

He had imagined you a hundred different ways.

None of them did your visage true justice.

You held a quiet, self-posessed presence. A recognition thrummed quietly beneath his ribs. Watching you felt like remembering something he had never lived. He watched every movement you made, every word spoken to his family, and every expression you held when you thought no one else was watching.

Later that same evening, Aerion caught himself wandering through the keep. He had yet to approach you on his own. He swore he could feel your presence through the thick, stone walls. For once in his life, Aerion was without confidence. He had never stood in the presence of someone he deemed greater than himself. As far as he was concerned, you were a goddess amongst men.

He trailed his ring-clad fingers against the red stone of the keep, his brows furrowed in concentration.

“My Prince. I did not expect to see you out so late.”

Aerion’s body came to a halt as your voice echoed behind him. He turned his body slowly, almost afraid to look upon you again.

As he met your gaze, his breath hitched. He took a step forward and stopped as if an unseen line had been drawn between the two of you. His eyes searched your face. His usual feelings of hunger and possession dulled in your presence. His gaze softened to something unusually fragile for the dragon prince.

“You are…” He began, then faltered.

His words did not come as easily as they usually did.

Your expression was composed, but carried a familiar weight. Wariness, practiced and unyielding. You had seen the same look in Aerion’s face on others before. Awe curdled into expectation, and curiosity that soured into possession.

Aerion’s gaze was… different.

Unsettling in a way you were not familiar with.

“I am what they say.” You answered, sparing him the struggle. “If that’s what you mean to ask.”

Aerion’s breath fell short in his chest.

“I do not mean to ask,” he said. “I mean to see.”

His voice had lost its usual edge. It held no mockery nor performance. Rather— a quiet intensity that seemed to tug at you.

You quirked a brow in curiosity, “And? What do you see?”

It was rare for a man like Aerion Targaryen to be uncertain. Even more so, his uncertainty to show plainly on his features. However, he could not bring himself to look away from you— afraid you may disappear as if you were never there in the first place.

“I do not know what to think.” He finally said, a quiet admission. Aerion felt vulnerable under your intense gaze.

Your guarded distance lowered slightly, though not completely gone. “Most men don’t.” You stated plainly. Your gaze shifted from him to the hallway of the keep behind you. Your stance shifted as you took a step back.

Aerion felt panic shoot down his spine, his hand lurching out in front of him, “Not yet.” The words left his mouth before he could shape them into something more appropriate. He did not wish for you to leave him just yet. Hells, he did not wish for you to leave him ever.

His outburst gave way to a quiet, aching admission.

Your expression tightened slightly as you halted in your movements.

That was the danger.

Not his blood.

Not his name.

This.

“You should be careful with what you seek from me, prince.” You spoke softly, though he felt as if your voice echoed loudly in his ears, “Men have wanted many things from me. None of them understood the cost.”

Aerion’s gaze held your own fervently. He could not waver now.

You took in his intense expression. The sharp edge of his jaw, his pale, lilac eyes, the furrow in his brow. But most of all, you noticed the pained look in his eyes.

“I do not wish to take anything from you.” He said, “I only…” He tongued his cheek, as if afraid to be honest. His usual mask faltered, slipping entirely. “I have spent my entire life being told what we are. What we were.” He swallowed.

“It never felt quite true.” The space between you felt as if it had narrowed. “But you…” He continued, barely above a murmur, “You feel like truth.”

Silence followed his words.

You searched his gaze. Searched for the same desire to claim, to control, that drove others to you. It was there, faintly. But it was not what drove him.

You stepped back once more, your shoulders squared in defiance.

“You are mistaken, my prince.” You drew in a shuddering breath, a weight on your chest that wasn’t there beforehand. “Whatever you think you see in me… it is not yours to be claimed.” You responded.

Aerion flinched, but did not reach for you this time.

“I know.’

And he sounded as though he truly did know.

You inclined your head towards him, a small, final gesture. “Good night, my prince. I trust your late-night wanderings will help you find the rest you so desire.”

You walked past him, your shoulder brushing his own. Aerion’s body shuddered at the contact. He felt as though he had been doused in wildfire.

He did not follow you.

Yet, his hands curled at his sides as if grasping for something he could not yet reach.

Then, softly, to no one but himself, he spoke.

“I have never seen anything like you.”

A quiet, unrelenting yearning took root where something far more dangerous might yet grow.

Disclaimer: I’m fully aware that my work isn't quite up to par with other ASOIAF fic writers. However, I’ve had this idea for a while and really wanted to put it out there. If you guys enjoy this, feel free to request this reader with other characters/scenarios! And if you'd like more info on the reader’s origins/history, I have an entire info sheet I can upload. Thank you so much for reading!

divider creds: @noxtiia

the-darklings

PLEASEEE ' Your grace, I am your man. Please. Your man ' this is so relevant for all of the men in ls adoring circle -dunk -baelor -lyonel -aerion -maeker

DUNK

You’re tending him again.

He came back from the yard scraped raw, bleeding in that careless way you know he does because he can’t help it—too willing to throw himself between danger and anyone smaller, too stubborn to admit when he’s hurting, too. You sit him down, tilt his face toward the light, clean the cut along his brow while he tries not to flinch more from your nearness more than the sting of the cloth.

“Ser Duncan,” you murmur, brushing mud from his cheekbone. “Hold still.”

He does. Gods, he tries. But you feel the tremor run through him anyway. Not fear, never fear, but something softer and far more perilous for him.

When you finish binding the scrape, he looks at you with that wide, unguarded devotion that always seems to spill out of him before he can catch it and tuck it back. His mouth works soundlessly for a moment, as though the words in him are too large to pass through his throat.

Then he shifts off the stool, and sinks to his knees before you.

#ser duncan x reader #baelor targaryen x reader #lyonel baratheon x reader #aerion targaryen x reader #maekar targaryen x reader #akotsk #a knight of the seven kingdoms #akotsk x reader #ser duncan the tall #baelor targaryen #maekar targaryen #lyonel baratheon

ghostlybfgf

WHAT WAS THEN, WILL BE

summary: when time calls for maekar to leave you, he makes sure you are left with all of him, with his hands, his body, his everything. and when he returns, forever changed, he proves it once more.

pairing: maekar targaryen x wife!reader (pre-rebellion/rebellion)

warning(s): SMUT, pinv, slight breeding kink, biting, soft-rough sex, mention of violence and war, injuries, slight angst (leaving for war), just domestic stuff

word count: 4.9k

a/n: fear not! i have a baelor version coming too, also i know maekar probs would have aged to how he looks in akotsk, and not in a year bur facial hair wise, we can pretend okay 👀

Trumpets had sounded at the first sight of dawn breaking, steel toed footsteps echoing every corner of the halls in their march. Banners had unfolded proud over every wall of the Keep, swords drawn from every belt that made their way to the courtyard, shouts of order to be heard from the furthest distance.

#a knight of the seven kingdoms #maekar targaryen #akotsk #maekar targaryen x reader #maekar the anvil #maekar targaryen x wife!reader #rebellion!maekar #maekar targaryen x you #maekar #got

moonologyy

IF I WAS YOUR BOYFRIEND !

-> art credit: @/non_unoo on Twitter !

pairing: timdrake/f!reader

𐔌՞. .՞𐦯 — whereas Tim Drake had his eyes on you from the very first week of the semester, he never expected his college best friend to start dating you— the person he’d wanted all along. So now he’s praying for your (ex) boyfriend’s downfall, because God forbid a man openly plots to have you for himself instead.

cw: yearning, strangers to lovers, one-sided love, requited love, slight manipulation, mr. steal your girl(?), Tim wants reader so badly, HAPPY ENDING, fluff, irrelevant OCs, slowburn, reader is in a relationship, NO CHEATING INVOLVED, tim respectfully plays the waiting game, he is more of a plotter than a messy person.

lwk listened to girlfriend by avril lavigne & boyfriend by justin bieber on loop. wc: 16k

The first time Tim had met you, it was not anything special.

There was no dramatic collision in the hallway, no moment where time seemed to slow and the world sharpened around your face.

You were simply there, seated a few rows ahead of him in a lecture hall that smelled faintly of dry erase markers and iridescent lights, flipping through your notebook with absentminded focus and a laptop that had an open tab of a clothing brand, another piece of shirt that would compliment you.

Tim knew you both had taken a class together in the first semester, one of those general education requirements that pulled students from every major into the same crowded room.

It had been easy not to notice you then, easy to let you blend into the background of rustling backpacks and low conversation before the professor began to speak while he completely zones out.

What registered first was familiarity.

#tim drake x fem!reader #tim drake x you #tim drake/reader #tim drake oneshot #tim drake fluff #tim drake x reader #tim drake fanfiction #red robin x fem!reader #red robin x y/n #red robin/reader

emmiesoverthemoon

we were always it

pairing: bang chan x reader tags: childhood friends to lovers, soulmate au, fluff, mutual pining, confession

for @orithyia-eriphyle, i hope you enjoy! 💌

in this world, soulmate marks aren’t something that comes with being born.

they do not appear in childhood, or fade in once you come of age, or bloom dramatically upon the first touch, or light up the moment you lock eyes with a stranger across a room. that would be too easy. too cruelly efficient.

instead, soulmate marks only appear after a confession. a real one.

not a forced one. not a half-assed, half-deflection tossed into the air to see if it lands. it has to be honest, and intentional. it has to be something said with the full understanding that you might not be loved back. only then will your mark stain across the patch of skin.

orithyia-eriphyle

I absolutely loved this! Thank you sm!!!

home for the holidays

Secret Stay Writing Event

to: @imagine-all-the-imagines

l. minho x reader

synopsis: returning home from college for the holidays was always jarring. Everyone is always asking questions about your “fancy” new college life, coupled with the general melancholy feelings the holidays bring. However, what you don’t expect is to have to finally confront your feelings for your childhood best friend.

warnings: fem reader, f2l, christmas!au, college!au, all fluff and comfort!

wc: 2.4k

I had so much fun writing for the Secret Stay Writing Event by @emmiesoverthemoon and @makeitworse ! Thank you for this opportunity!

#stray kids #stray kids x reader #x reader #christmas #writing event #secret stay writing event #lee know #lee know x reader #lee minho #lee minho x reader #minho #minho x reader

makeitworse

𝐒𝐄𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐓 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐘

⋆꙳·̩̩͙❅ thank you to everyone who signed up to participate in emmie & i’s event! we’re so very grateful for all of the effort, we hope our writers can feel the love this holiday season ♡

below you can find all of the fics that are to be posted from december 1st to january 7th. you can join the taglist if you’d like to be notified for each work! happy reading 💌

divider by @uzmacchiato

always-a-fangirlie

Creature in the Black Night

Synopsis: After finding you alone and hurt, physically and emotionally, Chris helps you get on your feet before sending you on your way. What he did not expect was to miss you, someone he only had in his cabin for less than a week. Once he started to shove thoughts of you out of his mind, you show back up even more in need of his help.

Word Count: 20.7k (I am so sorry, not really but at least I said it)

Genre: Slow burn. Porn with plot ABO!SKZ AU. Alpha!Chris and Healer!Felix are the two that Reader interact with most but it is implied all Kids are wolves and in the pack. TouchStarved!Chris. Hurt. Comfort. Smut (21+ warnings below cut). Morally Gray Chris, he is just so down bad. Fated mates with mate marks.

Warnings: This will have mentions of emotional and mental abuse, female anatomy, severe weight loss, accidental sexual assault (they both were asleep, one woke up and the other was still asleep), emotional dysregulation with pain (not self harm), blood, and injury. Italics are memories.

A/N: It’s here! Oh man, this was a journey. I hope those who waited for it enjoy it! I had a blast writing it. Yes, the title is based off of the new Dayseeker album.

Divider credit.

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT - 21+ ONLY BECAUSE THIS IS NASTY STUFF - Only you can control your media consumption - This is a work of fiction, nothing is true. I am delulu as a solulu to this world.

tismfanatic

I Told You I’d See You Again

𓂃𓈒𓏸♡ Pairing: Jon Snow X Fem!LadyInWaiting!Reader

𓂃𓈒𓏸♡ Genre: fluff • angst

𓂃𓈒𓏸♡ Summary: When you left with Sansa to Kings Landing, you and Jon made a promise full of whispered confessions and kisses that you’d see eachother again. Now, after four years of physical and psychological trauma, you and Sansa were brought to the wall where you reunited with a lost love.

𓂃𓈒𓏸♡ Warnings: Joffery and Ramsay. Yes they are warnings in themselves. Physical abuse. Beheading (RIP Ned Stark). Death. (RIP Jon but like then not RIP???)

𓂃𓈒𓏸♡ Word Count: 6.6k

𓂃𓈒𓏸♡ A/N: this is probably the most angst/yearning filled story I’ve ever written. But I don’t like just sad times so don’t worry, has a bit of a happy ending.

The godswood was hushed in the way only Winterfell’s heart could be, snow dusting the red leaves of the weirwood as if the old gods themselves had drawn a shroud over their sacred place.

You had slipped away from the warmth of the hall hours ago, heart pounding in your chest like a caged bird, cloak drawn tight against the late-winter air.

The fire inside had been stifling, filled with last-minute farewells and worried glances from those sworn to Sansa’s side. You had smiled where you were supposed to, dipped your head politely, hidden the way your stomach twisted at every mention of King’s Landing.

The capital was a world away—bright, dangerous, and full of vipers. Everyone knew it, though few dared to say so aloud.

It was Jon who had found you here.

His boots crunched softly over the frosted ground, his breath misting pale in the moonlight. You turned at the sound, and even before your eyes landed on him, something inside you eased. Jon Snow was not a man who belonged to many things, but he had always belonged to you.

“I knew you’d be out here.” he said, voice low, almost hesitant.

“Jon.” You tried to smile, though it trembled. “I thought you’d be with Robb and your brothers.”

“They’ll have me enough in the morning.” He shifted his weight, his dark curls falling into his eyes. “I wanted… one last moment. With you.”

The words cracked something open in your chest. You held your cloak tighter, not against the cold, but against the swell of longing you feared might undo you entirely.

Jon stepped closer, the moonlight catching on his pale skin, the soft fur at his collar catching the few snowflakes that were falling. He had always been beautiful to you—quietly so, in the way snow was beautiful. Not dazzling, but steadfast. Constant. A quiet kind of wonder that settled deep in your bones.

“You leave tomorrow,” he murmured, as if saying it aloud made it more real. “With Sansa.”

“Yes.” Your throat tightened around the word.

His jaw worked, a muscle ticking there as though he fought with words he did not know how to shape. His fingers twitched through his gloves. That was Jon’s way—full of things he wanted to say, never certain how to say them. But tonight, perhaps, the weight of time pressed too heavy for silence.

“I don’t like it,” he confessed at last. “I don’t trust the south. I don’t trust their people, or their court. You shouldn’t have to go.”

“I serve Sansa,” you said gently, though your own doubts had plagued you for weeks.“Where she goes, I go. She’ll need me.”

Jon nodded, though his eyes burned with a helplessness that hollowed you. “Aye. She will. But who will I have, when you’re gone?”

The words were like a knife twisted between your ribs, but you knew he never meant it in a malicious way.

You reached for him without thinking, your fingers brushing his gloved hand. For a heartbeat, he didn’t move. Then he caught your hand firmly, as though anchoring himself to the only truth he knew.

“Jon,” you whispered.

“I don’t have much to give you, there not much a bastard can offer,” he said, voice rough with urgency, “but I swear this: I’ll see you again. No matter how long it takes. No matter what it costs.”

Your eyes stung, tears threatening as you tried to hold them back. “Don’t promise me that,” you breathed. “You don’t know what the world will bring.”

“Then let it bring what it will.” He stepped closer, his free hand rising to cup your cheek. His palm was cold, roughened with callouses, but the touch set your skin alight. “I’ll find you again. Not even the Wall could keep me from you.”

You couldn’t fight it anymore. The tears slid hot down your cheeks, and before you could think better of it, you leaned in and pressed your lips to his.

The kiss was soft at first, tentative, like a question neither of you had dared to ask. Then it deepened, desperation bleeding into every brush of lips, every shiver of breath.

Jon held you as if he feared you’d vanish with the morning, and you clung back with equal fervor, pouring every unsaid word, every hidden longing, into that single moment.

When you broke apart, foreheads pressed together, both of you trembling, the world seemed to hold its breath.

“You’re mine,” Jon whispered, as if speaking it might make it true across distance and years. “No matter where you go. No matter what happens. You’ll always be mine.”

Your heart broke and healed in the same beat. You nodded, letting your hand rest over his racing heart. “And you, mine.”

The godswood bore witness to your vow, the red leaves whispering overhead like a thousand unseen eyes. In the stillness, you almost believed that the promise would be enough to hold back the storm.

You did not know, then, how cruel the years would be. You did not know the faces of kings or monsters, the taste of blood in your mouth, or the weight of scars yet unearned.

But you carried that kiss with you. That promise.

And so did Jon.

The road south seemed endless. Spring crept cautiously across the land, but to you, it felt nothing like the renewal you had known in the North.

Here, the air grew warmer too quickly, the winds carried dust instead of snowflakes, and the nights were louder—filled with insects, strangers, and the constant groaning wheels of the royal carriage.

Sansa rode ahead often, her auburn hair glinting bright in the sun, a sight that caught the king’s eye far too easily. She carried herself proudly, as she had been taught, the picture of a lady betrothed to a prince. You followed quietly, as was your place, a shadow at her side. Lady-in-waiting, companion, shield when needed. You did not envy her; you pitied her, though you did not let her see it.

At night, when the fires burned low and the camp settled, Sansa would sometimes lie awake, staring at the stars as though they might tell her the shape of her future. You’d sit beside her, mending a sleeve or brushing her hair.

“Do you think it will be as wonderful as they say?” she asked once, her voice wistful. “King’s Landing. The Red Keep. The court. The songs always speak of it as though it’s a dream.”

You hesitated. “Dreams can be fair or foul, my lady.” You didn’t want to dim her spark but you also needed her to understand that things could be different than the way they were exaggerated in the songs and tales.

Sansa frowned, childlike, as if the thought had never occurred to her. “It has to be wonderful,” she said, almost fiercely. “It must.”

You smoothed her braid and said nothing. Deep inside, you thought of Jon’s eyes in the godswood—dark, worried, warning—and wished you could carry that look with you as armor.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The capital was dazzling in its own way: white stone towers catching the sunlight, banners snapping in the breeze, streets teeming with color and sound. Sansa gasped at the sight, her hands clasped in yours like a child too excited to contain themselves.

You, however, did not gasp. Your stomach twisted. For all its splendor, King’s Landing smelled of rot beneath the perfume—fish left too long on the docks, waste tossed into alleys, sweat baking in the sun.

You had such a bad feeling in your gut but you were here for Sansa. You wouldn’t let your fears and doubts get in the way of her happiness.

In the Red Keep, you learned your place quickly. Sansa was betrothed to the crown prince, and every eye turned on her with calculation. The queen’s smiles were sharp like knives. The courtiers’ laughter hid teeth. Even the servants seemed sharper here, watching for weakness they could exploit.

You walked a step behind Sansa, hands folded, eyes lowered, and yet still you felt the weight of it pressing on you. They saw you as hers—her shadow, her confidante. That meant you were worth something, and in King’s Landing, worth was a dangerous thing.

The cruelties began softly. A jab at dinner about your northern accent. A mocking look when you stumbled over the endless stairs of the Keep. Servants whispering when you passed, calling you “the wolf girl’s shadow.”

You bore it quietly, for Sansa’s sake. She needed to shine, to impress, to stand proud before her prince. When she blushed beneath Joffrey’s compliments, you forced yourself to smile too, though something about his smirk made your skin crawl.

At night, Sansa would chatter about him—how handsome he was, how noble, how gallant. You nodded, you hummed agreement, and you swallowed your doubts.

But sometimes, when she slept, you sat by the window and thought of Winterfell. Of snow on your lashes, of quiet halls, of Jon’s arms around you. The memory of his kiss was still fresh enough to warm you against the cold stone of your chambers.

The first true cruelty came on the kingsroad, long before King’s Landing had taught you its lessons in full. The clash between Arya and Joffrey, the chaos with Nymeria, the way Sansa was pulled between love for her sister and her betrothed—it cracked something in her.

That night, she wept in your lap.

“I didn’t mean it,” she sobbed, clutching at your gown. “I didn’t want her hurt. I only wanted him to—”

“I know.” You stroked her hair, rocking her gently, holding her close as if you could take away the pain that way. “I know, Sansa.”

Her tears soaked your skirts, but you let them. Better you than anyone else. You whispered the old songs of the North until she slept, your own eyes burning with helplessness.

In the months that followed, you learned the rhythms of the court. The morning greetings, the endless prayers, the meals where every bite carried hidden meaning. Sansa grew more quiet as the days went on, her laughter grew stiff, and her smiles were painted on with effort.

You stayed close to her, ever ready with a handkerchief, a brush, a word of comfort. When Joffrey snapped at her, you bowed your head. When the queen corrected her, you curtsied deeper. When Sansa trembled after, you whispered courage in her ear.

You found yourself doing the same for other handmaidens in your court. Wiping their tears when a nobles hand touched where it shouldn’t, sneaking them food when they’ve been dealing with a particularly cruel noble.

Once, when Joffrey struck a handmaiden across the face for hesitating too long over an answer, you stepped forward without thinking. The king’s eyes landed on you, sharp and amused.

“Would you take her punishment, girl?” he sneered.

You did not flinch. You would not give him that satisfaction. “If it pleases you, your grace.”

The back of his hand came fast and cruel. Your lip split, your cheek burned, but you kept your gaze steady. Sansa cried out, but you shook your head quickly, silently begging her not to speak for the fear he would turn his hand onto her.

Later, in the privacy of her chamber, she pressed a cool cloth to your face with trembling hands.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” she whispered to you, her concern evident in her voice.

“I’d do it again,” you said simply.

Her eyes filled with tears. She leaned her head on your shoulder and clutched your hand tightly, as if afraid you might vanish too.

It was not all torment. There were moments—brief, fragile—where Sansa’s old self shone through. When she laughed at a story, when she hummed as you braided her hair, when she whispered to you about the snow she missed so dearly.

But those moments grew fewer. The queen’s shadow loomed long, and Joffrey’s moods turned sharper.

You bore the weight with her. You let them mock you, hurt you, use you as shield and scapegoat. Because every time you stepped between Sansa and their cruelty, you saw relief in her eyes, and that was enough.

At night, when she finally slept, you let yourself think of Jon. You remembered the way he would hold your face, the warmth of his kisses. The love in his words. You wondered if he thought of you still.

And when you whispered his name into the silence, you almost believed the old gods carried it northward, across the leagues of stone and snow, to where he waited.

The day everything broke began with shouting in the streets. Rumors ran faster than the wind: Ned Stark, arrested. Treason. Plotting to steal the throne.

You could hardly breathe as you ran to Sansa’s side, finding her pale and shaking in her chamber. “They’ve lied,” she said to you over and over, as though repeating it could change what was happening. “He’s good, he’s honorable—he would never—”

You held her, though your own heart cracked. You knew Eddard Stark was an honorable man. He held the laws and regulations of court as well as his duties to high regard. He would never do or be what they’ve accused. But you and Sansa were just small pieces in a too big and malicious world. There was nothing you two could do.

The days blurred. Pleas to the queen and Joffery. Tears. Desperation. You stayed strong for her, even as your stomach continued to fill with dread.

And then came the day of the execution.

You were given the ‘courtesy’ to stand with Sansa next to the execution block. You believed it gave Joffery a sort of sick pleasure for you to be there to witness Sansa’s life officially fall apart. The sun was too bright, the air too sharp, and every sound seemed to echo.

When the axe fell, when Ned Stark’s head struck the ground, Sansa screamed.

You caught her before she collapsed, though your own knees nearly gave way. The world tilted, broke, shattered. Around you, the crowd roared, jeered, cheered.

You held her face to your chest, shielding her eyes, your own tears hot on your cheeks, your eyes locked on the severed head that laid disrespected on the ground. But you could not shield her ears, nor your own, from the sound that would haunt you both forever.

The moment Winterfell’s dream died.

The days after Lord Stark’s beheading blurred together in shades of grief and terror.

The North had always been your compass, its honor a steady star, but in King’s Landing that star had been shattered before your eyes.

Sansa hardly spoke if it wasn’t to you. She moved like a doll wound too tightly, her smiles brittle, her eyes empty. You dressed her, brushed her hair, whispered comfort she no longer seemed to hear. You wanted to rage, to weep, but you swallowed it. She needed you strong, even if she could not be strong herself.

The court was merciless. Joffrey preened with his crown, the queen smirked her triumph, and the courtiers whispered gleefully of treason and justice. You became Sansa’s shield in truth, stepping forward when she faltered, bowing deeper when she forgot herself.

When Joffrey forced her to look upon her father’s head on a spike, Sansa swayed as if she might faint. You caught her hand tightly, whispering, “Don’t let them see you fall.”

Your own knees nearly gave way when the boy-king turned his eyes on you. “Ah, the little wolf’s shadow,” he said with a cruel grin. “Still following her around like a dog? Perhaps we’ll find a place for you at court too. A whipping girl, maybe.”

The laughter that followed was jagged as broken glass.

You bowed your head, jaw clenched, nails digging into your palms. You said nothing. Later, in the quiet of her chamber, you let Sansa sob against your shoulder until her throat was raw.

Life in the Red Keep became a game of endurance for you two. Each day brought new humiliations, new cruelties. You learned to read Joffrey’s moods before he struck. You learned when to distract the queen’s attention to spare Sansa a question. You learned silence was often the only shield you had.

And yet—there were unlikely mercies.

Tyrion Lannister was not like the rest of his kin. Sharp-tongued, yes, but his wit never carried cruelty. When he became Hand of the King, the court sneered at him, but you watched closely. He listened to Sansa where others mocked her. He offered small kindnesses—a word, a nod, a cup of watered wine when her hands shook.

You began to exchange quiet words with him too. Once, after Joffrey had humiliated Sansa before the court, Tyrion found you in a corridor, your hands trembling with fury you dared not show.

“Best not to let the boy see your anger,” he advised softly.

You stiffened, but his eyes held no malice. Only weariness.

“I don’t need your counsel, my lord,” you murmured.

“Perhaps not.” He inclined his head. “But the both of you need allies, even small ones. And you’ll find few here willing to bleed for the last two wolves in the keep.”

It startled you. But over time, you allowed small trust to grow. Tyrion never overstepped, never treated you with scorn. It was a strange friendship—quiet, unspoken, but real.

Sometimes, when Sansa slept, you wondered if he saw in you the same thing in you two that you saw in him: a soul trying to survive in a place built to crush the weak.

The day of Joffrey’s wedding to Margaery Tyrell dawned bright and hot. You dressed Sansa carefully, smoothing her gown, braiding her hair with steady hands though your stomach churned with dread. Weddings were meant to be joyful, but here, joy felt like a dangerous facade.

The feast was a blur of music and laughter, though every sound seemed brittle. Joffrey strutted, drunk on power and wine, tormenting Sansa with jests and cruel mockery. You kept your gaze down, your hands folded tight, praying silently for the night to end.

And then—chaos.

Joffrey coughing, choking, his face turning purple as he clawed at his throat. Screams. Shouts. The queen’s shrill cry.

You froze, one arm instinctively around Sansa’s waist. You watched as the boy-king convulsed, as the hall erupted. You felt no pity. You felt no mourning. Only a hollow, stunned silence.

But then all eyes turned. To Sansa. To Tyrion. To you. To anyone who might bear blame.

“Come,” whispered Ser Dontos, suddenly urgent at your side. “Now. Quickly, if you two want to live.”

Sansa trembled, wide-eyed, and you pulled her close. You trusted no one—but in that instant, you knew staying meant nothing but death. You nodded sharply and tugged her along.

The next moments were a blur of rushing feet, pounding heartbeats, shadows and alleys. You clutched Sansa’s hand as though letting her go meant losing her forever.

By the time you reached the river, breathless and terrified, the Red Keep was behind you.

King Joffrey was dead.

And you were fugitives.

The escape was not salvation. It was the beginning of a new kind of prison.

Sansa’s marriage to Tyrion had never been consummated, yet it still marked her in the eyes of Westeros. She was a pawn, a prize, a Stark of Winterfell with claim and name worth killing for.

Wherever you went, hunters followed.

When Littlefinger’s schemes wound their way to the Eyrie and beyond, you found yourself swept into a web of lies and dangers. You absolutely loathed him, yet you had no power to break free. All you could do was cling to Sansa, whispering reassurance when she doubted herself, bearing the scorn of others so her shoulders could remain lighter.

But nothing could prepare you for Ramsay Bolton.

When Sansa was handed to him, you went too—her shadow still, her shield, her sister in all but name.

The dread set in the moment you stepped through the gates of Winterfell reborn. The castle was familiar yet twisted, its stones haunted by memory. The banners bore the flayed man now, crimson on pale, a grotesque mockery of what was once your home.

Sansa’s face was carved from ice as she was presented as bride. You stood at her side, head bowed, every muscle tight with foreboding.

And Ramsay… Ramsay smiled.

Life in Winterfell under Ramsay was worse than King’s Landing in its cruelty. Joffrey had been a spoiled boy with far too much power; Ramsay was something else entirely. Something darker.

He delighted in fear, in pain, in breaking spirits. And when he turned that attention to Sansa, you stepped between them as often as you dared.

Sometimes it worked. Sometimes it did not.

When Ramsay struck her, you moved forward. When he demanded obedience, you took the punishment in her stead. He seemed to relish it, amused by your defiance, by how far you would go to protect her.

The bruises became your constant companions. The nights bled into terror. But Sansa endured, and so did you.

“Why do you always stand in front of me?” she asked once, her voice trembling as you cleaned blood from your lip.

“Because I can,” you whispered. “Because I must.”

Her eyes glistened. “I don’t want you hurt for me.”

“It’s too late for that,” you said softly. “You mean a lot to me, Sansa. If taking a beating means you live another day, I would do it ten times over.”

You embraced then, two broken pieces clinging together in the cold. In that moment, you were not lady and servant, not Stark and companion—you were sisters.

And always, in the silence of your heart, you thought of Jon.

On the darkest nights, when Ramsay’s laughter echoed in the halls and despair threatened to swallow you, you clung to the memory of the godswood. Of his lips against yours, his voice promising, “Not even the Wall could keep me from you.”

You repeated it to yourself like a prayer. You had to believe it. You had to believe he was somewhere at the wall also repeating your words in his mind. You had to.

Because if you didn’t, you feared you would not survive.

Unbeknownst to you, Jon was going through his own version of struggles.

The Wall did not sleep. It groaned and sighed like some great beast, its ice shifting with the wind, its surface glittering cold beneath the pale sun. For Jon Snow, it had long since ceased to be a wonder. It was home now, though home was a word that rang hollow in his chest.

Winterfell was gone to him. The halls of his childhood, the voices of his kin, the warmth of the hearth—those belonged to another life. His was the black now: the rough wool of his cloak, the bite of wind against his skin, the weight of duty on his shoulders.

And yet, even here, your memory would sit with him.

At first it was only at night. He would close his eyes and remember the day you met, the way your love grew until the two of you couldn’t ignore it. He remembered the godswood, the snow in your hair, the way your lips had trembled against his when you kissed him. He would remember the promise he had made—I’ll see you again.

When the days were long and grueling, when his muscles ached from training recruits or from long patrols on the ice, he would hear your laughter in his memory. He had not realized how often you laughed, how often your smile had cut through the gloom of Winterfell’s stone halls. Here, without it, the silence was heavier.

He never spoke of you. Not to Sam, not to Grenn, only to Ghost, who watched him with red eyes that seemed to know too much.

You were his secret, his solace.

When the Watch brothers named him Lord Commander, Jon felt the weight of it settle like a yoke across his shoulders. He had not sought it, had not desired it, yet it was his. He bore it with quiet resolve.

But still, there were nights when he stood at the top of the Wall, looking north into endless white, and thought of you. Did you still live? Did you still smile? Or had the vipers of the south swallowed you whole?

The uncertainty gnawed at him more than the cold ever could. He had promised. He had promised. What was a man if he could not keep his word?

Sometimes, when exhaustion left him weak, he let himself imagine you walking through the gates of Castle Black, cloak heavy with snow. He would step forward, take your hand, kiss your snow touched lips and at last breathe again.

It was foolish. But it kept him warm when the wind cut sharp enough to bleed.

The knives came fast.

He had known discontent brewed among the brothers. His choice to side with the Wildlings was not a choice they approved of. He had heard the whispers, seen the looks. But he had not expected the steel.

“For the Watch.”

The first blade pierced his side. Jon gasped, the cold sharper than fire. Faces swam before him—men he had led, men he had trusted. And yet they carved him open as though he were nothing.

Another blade. Another voice. “For the Watch.”

Jon fell to his knees, his vision darkening. He thought of Robb, of Arya and Sansa, and Bran and Rickon. He thought of Winterfell, of snow falling on the courtyard.

And then—he thought of you.

Your face rose in his mind, clearer than any memory of banners or blades. The way you had looked at him that night, eyes full of fear of the future and love for him, lips whispering his name. He felt the press of your hand against his chest as though it were there still.

As the final knife slid home, Jon let the darkness take him with one thought: At least… perhaps I’ll see her again.

But death was not the end.

He woke gasping, the world searing bright, his lungs burning as if they had forgotten how to draw breath. His body was cold, too cold, and his heart hammered as though it might burst.

They told him later of Melisandre, of sorcery and fire. Jon heard, but he hardly listened. The only thing he knew was this: he had been given back.

Why?

He did not know. But in the dark of his chamber, he whispered your name, voice hoarse, and something inside him ached with fierce certainty.

Not even death could keep him from you.

Afterward, everything felt rawer. The cold sharper, the silence deeper, the world thinner. He did his duty still—met with the wildlings, bore the stares of the brothers, walked the halls like a ghost among men. He had brought the betrayers to justice with a face too tired to give away any other emotion.

But the thought of you no longer brought him solace. It was a knife twisting in his ribs, sharper now than ever. Because he had come so close to never keeping his promise. Because he feared he had failed you already.

Yet he clung to it. To you.

He remembered your hand in his. The vow spoken beneath the weirwood. The kiss that had been both beginning and farewell.

Jon Snow was many things—bastard, brother, commander, corpse—but he was still yours. And if there was any justice left in the world, any bit of good, the old gods would lead you back to him.

Winterfell was a cage.

Its stones were familiar, but they carried no warmth. They echoed with Ramsay’s laughter, with the scrape of locks and bolts, with screams muffled by walls too thick.

The days blurred into dread. Sansa endured with a face carved from frost, but you saw the cracks: the way her hands trembled as you braided her hair, the way she flinched when boots sounded in the corridor. You hid your own bruises, your own scars, as best you could, but some could not be hidden.

You shielded her when you could, always stepping forward, always drawing Ramsay’s cruelty toward yourself. He delighted in it. Sometimes he hurt you simply to watch Sansa break. And each time, you wondered how much more your body could take, how much more your spirit could bear.

But still you clung to the promise whispered years ago in the godswood. I’ll see you again. You whispered Jon’s name into the dark, and sometimes it was the only thing that kept you from collapsing.

Hope came in flickers.

Sansa whispered of an old woman in the kitchens, of promises that help would come if she lit a candle in the tower. You listened, heart pounding, afraid to believe.

But one night, you crept with her to the broken window, the cold biting your skin. Together, you struck the flint, the flame trembling as though it too feared discovery.

You stood shoulder to shoulder with her, the two of you staring into the night, praying someone saw.

“Do you think anyone will come?” she asked softly.

You took her hand, squeezing. “Someone will.”

For both your sakes, you had to believe it.

Theon Greyjoy was a ghost of the arrogant boy you once knew. You had grown up with him in Winterfell, seen him boast, laugh, strut like a rooster. That boy was gone. In his place was a broken man who called himself Reek, eyes hollow, shoulders bent beneath invisible chains.

At first, you despised him. For betraying your house, for standing idle as you and Sansa suffered. For being Ramsay’s creature.

But there were moments—small, trembling—where his old self flickered through. A glance, a word, a hand hesitating where once it would have obeyed.

And then one night, when Ramsay’s cruelty pressed too far, Theon found you both.

“You can’t stay here,” he whispered, eyes darting in terror. “He’ll kill you. Or worse.”

Sansa stiffened, her voice icy. “And why should we trust you?”

“Because…” His throat worked, tears glinting in his broken eyes. “Because I can’t watch him hurt you anymore. Not after everything I’ve done.”

You studied him, your heart heavy. He was no longer the boy you’d known, but something in his voice rang true. Perhaps even broken things could still choose to stand.

“Then help us,” you said softly, taking his shaking hand in your own. “Prove it.”

The escape came on a night when the snow fell heavy, muffling the world in white. Theon led you through hidden passages, his steps sure even as his hands shook. You held Sansa’s arm tightly, your heart pounding with every creak of the stones.

Behind you, Winterfell slept fitfully. You prayed Ramsay did not wake.

At the battlements, the drop yawned below, the snow piled thick.

“We’ll never survive it,” Sansa whispered.

“We’ll die if we stay,” you murmured back.

Theon’s face was pale, his breath ragged. “It’s the only way.”

You looked at Sansa, at the girl you had followed from Winterfell to King’s Landing to this twisted mockery of home. You thought of all you had endured together, all the nights you had held her when she cried, all the blows you had taken for her.

“If you jump, I jump,” you said firmly.

Her eyes filled, but she nodded. Together, you grasped hands. And then—

You leapt.

The air tore past you, the snow rushed up, the world spun white. Impact stole your breath, pain lancing through your body. But you lived. You lived.

And for the first time in years, the gates of Winterfell no longer held you prisoner.

The snows were merciless, but hope was fiercer. You stumbled through the drifts with Sansa, half-carrying her when she faltered, half-dragged yourself forward when your own legs nearly gave out. Theon pressed on too, his face a mask of determination and guilt.

When riders came—Bolton men, hunting—the end felt near. You braced yourself, clutching the small dagger you’d stolen, prepared to die before you let them take you back.

And then a shadow thundered from the trees.

A woman, tall as a tower, sword flashing in the pale light. She struck with fury, cutting down men twice her size as though they were stalks of wheat. Beside her, a squire fought valiantly, though clumsily.

Brienne of Tarth.

You had heard whispers of her—a woman knight, sworn to Catelyn Stark.

You knew the squire too. Podrick had been a good friend to you in your years in Kings Landing.

When she dismounted before you, kneeling in the snow, her voice rang with a vow that made your knees weak.

“Lady Sansa. I swore to your mother I would keep her daughters safe. I offer you my sword and my life.”

Sansa’s lips trembled, tears freezing on her cheeks as she looked at you. She looked afraid to trust another person and you couldn’t blame her. Both of your walls had been built with iron, refusing to crumble anymore. You steadied her with a hand, your own chest aching.

“You can trust her,” you whispered, though your voice shook.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, you believed it.

Under Brienne’s protection, the path turned northward. The snow was bitter, the road perilous, but for the first time in years you felt a flicker of true hope.

At night, huddled by the fire, you and Sansa whispered of what lay ahead.

“Jon is Lord Commander now,” she said softly, as though afraid the words might vanish if spoken too loud.

Your heart clenched at his name. “Jon?”

“Yes.” A small, trembling smile touched her lips. “At Castle Black. If we can reach him—”

You closed your eyes, the image burning bright. Jon, alive. Waiting. The promise not yet broken.

Sansa reached from her own horse to hold your hand, the same flicker of hope in her eyes. She knew what Jon meant to you.

You let yourself whisper into the wind, so quiet no one else could hear: “Not even the Wall could keep him from me.”

And as the snow fell, you prayed the gods were listening.

The gates of Castle Black groaned open beneath the weight of the storm. Snow swirled in great white sheets, the wind cutting through wool and fur alike, but you barely felt it. Your pulse thundered too loud, your chest too tight. Each step forward was an agony of anticipation.

Sansa’s hand gripped yours from her own horse, trembling though she tried to hide it. Brienne and Pod fell behind, giving her space. Even Theon lingered back, eyes lowered, his shoulders hunched in shame.

And then he was there.

Jon.

Standing in the courtyard, dark cloak swirling about him, hair damp with snow. His face was pale, lined with weariness deeper than his years, but his eyes—gods, his eyes were the same. Grey as a storm sky, piercing as ever, widening now with disbelief.

For a heartbeat, no one moved. The wind howled, snow whipped, and the years between you stretched like a chasm. Jon and Sansa simply stared at eachother, almost as if they believed the other was simply an illusion.

Then Sansa broke.

She stumbled forward, a sound torn from her throat, half a sob, half a laugh. Jon caught her, arms wrapping around her so tightly you thought he might never let her go and you found your lips curling into a smile for the first time in a long time.

“Jon,” she gasped, clinging to him. “It’s you—it’s really you.”

He buried his face in her hair, his shoulders shaking. “Sansa.” His voice cracked. “I thought I’d lost you as well.”

You watched, tears stinging your eyes, your chest aching with the sight of them. Brother and sister, torn apart, reunited at last. You wanted to give them this moment, every heartbeat of it.

When at last Sansa pulled back, Jon cupped her face in his hands, studying her with a mix of grief and relief. Then, slowly, his gaze shifted.

To you.

His breath caught. His hands fell away from Sansa’s face, hanging uselessly at his sides. His eyes widened, then softened, then filled with something rawer than you had ever seen.

“Love…?”

Your ever lasting pet name on his lips shattered you.

It was not the first time you had heard it—he had whispered it to you many in Winterfell’s court and godswood, murmured it in stolen kisses. But now, after four years of silence, after the weight of torment and separation, it felt like a miracle.

You stepped forward, your legs unsteady, tears blurring the world. “Jon…”

And then you were finally in his arms.

He crushed you against him, as though afraid you might vanish if he loosened his hold. You buried your face in his neck, sobs tearing free, your fists clutching tightly at his cloak.

“I thought—you were gone,” you choked.

“I thought the same of you,” he whispered, his voice breaking. His hands framed your face then, trembling as his thumbs brushed the tears from your cheeks. His eyes devoured you, searching every line, every scar, as though to assure himself you were real.

“You’re alive,” he said, over and over, like a prayer. “Gods, you’re alive.”

Your laugh was a broken thing, wet with tears. “Barely.”

At that, his expression shifted. Grief. Rage. His gaze dropped to the faint bruises at your throat, the scars you could not hide. His jaw clenched, his whole body taut with fury held barely in check.

“What did they do to you?” His voice was hoarse, dangerous.

You shook your head quickly, pressing your forehead to his. “Not now. Please. Just hold me.”

And he did. He held you as though he could keep the world itself at bay.

Later, when the storm eased and warmth could be found in the Great Hall, the four of you—Jon, Sansa, you, Brienne—sat together. Food was laid out, though you barely touched it. Your eyes stayed on Jon, drinking in every detail, afraid to blink.

Sansa held your hand, her head resting on your shoulder, the tension in her shoulders easing for the first time in years. Brienne stood guard nearby, silent as ever, but you felt her watchful gaze soften.

Jon reached across the table, his hand finding yours beneath the wood. His fingers twined with yours, rough and warm, and for a moment it was as though no time had passed.

“I kept my promise,” he murmured low, for you alone.

Tears burned again. “So did I.”

That night, in the quiet of a chamber that held nothing but you and him, you showed him the truth.

You let the cloak fall from your shoulders, revealing the bruises, the scars, the thinness of a body too long starved and beaten. His eyes roved over you, and the pain there nearly undid you.

“Every mark,” he whispered, his hands shaking as they hovered just shy of your skin, “is one more I’ll carry with you. They’ll never touch you again. I swear it.”

You reached for him, cupping his cheek, forcing his stormy gaze to meet yours. “Jon Snow,” you said softly, firmly, “you are the only thing that kept me alive. Every day, every night, I thought of you. Of our promise. That’s why I survived.”

His lips trembled, and then he kissed you.

It was not the hurried, secretive kiss of Winterfell, nor the desperate imagining of years apart. It was broken and healing all at once, tasting of tears and firelight, of longing finally, finally fulfilled.

When you pulled apart, your foreheads pressed together, Jon whispered, “Not even death could keep me from you.”

And for the first time in years, you believed in tomorrow.

#game of thrones #game of thrones x reader #jon snow #jon snow x reader #x reader

aquaticmercy

Black Sheep

Summary : The Winter Soldier fell in love with his doctor. Bucky Barnes remembers.

Pairing : Bucky Barnes x doctor!reader (she/her)

Warnings/tags : Protective!Bucky, slow-burn, trauma bonding, whump, bit of fluff and a lot of angst, violence, mentions of death, medical trauma, human experimentation, psychological manipulation, emotional and physical abuse, attempted and threatened sexual assault, isolation. Protective!Bucky, slow-burn emotional bonding, and angst. Reader discretion is strongly advised, especially for survivors of sexual violence or abuse. (Please let me know if I miss anything!!!)

Word count : 9.2k

Requested by : Anon! Based on this request

Note : If you’d like to be on the taglist, message me! It gets lost in the comments sometimes. Enjoy!

When you took the job, you didn’t ask too many questions

The recruiter approached you late—long after you’d sent out resumes, long after your student loan grace period had dried up and your dreams of a hospital residency were smothered under interest rates and rejection emails. They found you exactly when they knew you’d be desperate.

The offer came in a nondescript envelope. No return address and company name. Just a number to call, and a time limit.

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x f!reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes fluff #bucky barnes #bucky barnes imagine #bucky x you #marvel fanfiction #bucky barnes angst

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