#Stony Man Trail

[buckcherried]

kento nanami didn't realize he had it in him until he met you. and by god, did it surprise the absolute fuck out of you both.

you thought your sly comment would earn a small but rewarding dig out of him. get a rise out of his uptight, slack-wearing ass and encourage him to live a little. you took your role just as seriously as he did, but fuck, this man was the personified definition of the term bootstrapper. playing with powerful men was a fun little hobby of yours; a bit of entertainment during your incredibly taxing day-to-day duties of being a jujutsu sorcerer. gojo could take your shit like a champ and give it right back to you without missing a beat. you knew you held very little power in this light over the strong-willed man you knew as kento nanami. he never gave in to your antics to rile him.

it was a personal challenge of yours to break the blasé businessman.

and tonight you were keeping him taut and teetering on the very edge of his composure, not that you had to know that. kento nanami was good at remaining professional, especially so here at the office. and especially in front of you, someone he personally held a great amount of respect for, a notable and proven challenge to even the strongest, with an even smarter mouth.

it was just the two of you, finishing out the last of your tasks for the evening. you were sat in his office, in the chair that stood before his desk flipping casually through the stack of potential recruits you stiffed from gojo’s desk. you didn’t even catch exactly which quip from your armory of smartassery fell from your lips as you got up to leave the man to his work that had him up and flush behind you in a flash.

nanami had your ponytail wrapped around his fist and yanked hard, your head slamming back hard into the crook of his neck as his front was suddenly flat against your back. an astounded gasp was choked from your throat at the sudden blow to the back of your head against his stocky shoulder.

"is this what you want, sweetheart?" he whispered as his sharp cheekbone grazed the apple of your cheek as your head remained restrained there at his hand. his tone was all too casual for the rate he had your heartbeat at, "if you want something, you have to ask for it."

your eyes instantly shot over to study the businessman, whose face was a mere inch from yours. though you strained to get a good look from the position he had you in, you gathered no expression about him. like this reaction of his was completely typical of him. like you should have seen this coming. from the corner of his eye, nanami's stony gaze fell to you.

your stunned silence was not the right answer, but your mind was in no state to converse. the man who had never so much as cracked a playful one-liner back at your frequent lashes of witticism had you now standing flush against his front rutting his rigid cock into the fat of your ass.

this, was certainly not what you expected from kento nanami. but you had absolutely no objection of the matter.

the hand that didn't have your hair secured tight around it trailed flat up the front of you, leaving no curve untouched in its wake. he grazed upward through the valley of your breasts to reach and rest at your collarbone, ever so controlled and meticulous. he could feel your heartbeat hammering. "beg. maybe i'll consider."

the gasp that escaped passed your lips was completely involuntary. the 7:3 sorcerer was capable of a lot more than you thought. and fuck — you couldn't deny the ache in your cunt as it clenched in compulsion around nothing. but oh how you wished it was that unrelenting cock at your back that was filling the space—

with a clearing of your strained throat, your eyes dart back to his in this intimate proximity he's placed you in, "is this how you're going to handle gojo's smart mouth, too? if so let me know— i'd love to be there to see it."

without hesitation kento's hips snapped up into your ass, retaliation for that fucking mouth, grinding that weapon of a cock into you. "satoru doesn't make me feel like this."

his free hand was at your neck now, his fingers grazing upward of the exposed skin until they reached your mouth. his fingertips brushed over your parted lips, his index and middle finger tapping lightly together at the entrance. you took a sharp inhale in through your nose and held it there.

"you know exactly what you want," nanami's voice was a steady growl in your ear, almost like he knew how to tame you, "let's see how much you want it."

nanami slips those same two digits passed your lips to settle on your tongue. instinctively you hollow your cheeks out around them, sucking on the slender length of his two fingers as if they were the hard unyielding cock at into your backside. it twitched beneath you at your actions in encouragement. your tongue made quick work of the digits, coating them in your spit.

your actions earn a satisfied tut from the former businessman. "thaaaaat's it, sweetheart."

nanami dips his fingers further down your throat and you gag around them, saliva filling your mouth. pleased with the result, he pulls a sloppy string of it straight out. he hastily releases your hair and wraps his hand around to the front of you to roughly undo the button of your pants. your eyes widened, and before you can say a word, his slick digits pushed aside your panties and slapped hard against your clit with a wet thwack!

"kento— fuck!"

you couldn't help but yelp, your knees going weak and body concaving back even further into nanami's sturdy frame. he cushioned the responsibility of your sudden weight, stepping back til his backside hits the desk, leaning back onto it so your body could recline back against his.

“shhhh," he coos, fingers working ever so tender circles on your throbbing clit. it had your legs shaking against your accustomed tight control. "i’m going easy on you. i should be getting the belt right now thanks to that mouth of yours."

the sheer thought of this man stripping his belt from his perfectly tailored suit just to bend you over his knee to take it as punishment had your pussy soaking through your panties. his all too expensive cologne was the only thing you could get your overstimulated brain to focus on, breathing him in and out as it worked deliriously on catching up to the scene splayed out before you. your bare legs spread and split open before him. watching the endless laps he drew over your clit with the sloppy slick he earned out of your cunt. you drifted your hazy gaze to his lust-blown eyes that watched himself work with such precision, such care. like that smart mouth of yours he had been reprimanding you for seconds prior was something he was truly quite fond of. kento leaned back and parted your thighs further with the tops of his knees, propping up your numb lower half like he was trying to get a closer look of his handiwork.

kento slowed his pace even further, even lighter, like he was a wind-up toy in need of another crank. you pushed a guttural groan out of your throat at the new tempo. it felt so good it turned to torture. so antagonizingly slow. moving so still you had the time to notice how your body rose and fell with his deep breaths beneath you. how his free hand held your hip so softly, as if you were so delicate you'd break under any sort of pressure. the way his sharp cheekbone found a resting place in the hollow of your cheek. the man was so caught up in pleasing your cunt to notice you noticing the details of his actions. your lips parted as if to speak, but the only sound to be heard in grain of the silence was the squelch! of your sopping cunt at the mercy of his fingers. kento hummed in contentment.

"for a woman with such an arsenal of satirical cracks i'm quite surprised you've stayed quiet for this long," nanami's lips were at your temple as he spoke, and if you weren't so drunk on his fingers and oh so very touch-starved you might have almost mistaken the motion of his lips brushing against your skin for kisses. "i didn't know you had it in you. i almost enjoy the quiet."

your laugh startled the both of you. he was successfully riling you up. "oh, say it like you mean it, kento," your hips were softly bucking up toward his touch, wordlessly begging him for more, "you love my smart mouth almost as much as you'd love fucking it."

though he tried to conceal it, you caught the waver in his slick-coated digits as he tried to seamlessly resume his pattern. a shit-eating grin found its way to your lips. you had the man wrapped around your finger. but he sure as hell wasn’t going to let it show, at least not on his face. his throbbing cock still flush against the meat of your ass said it all.

despite the back talk, and like the perfect gentleman he was, his fingers continued taking great care of that sensitive bundle of nerves for you. his gaze hadn’t faltered from your growingly antsy core. he had a simple question fall from his lips, “is that what you want?”

the idea of him with a hand locked at the back of your head as he leisurely fucked your mouth slow and deliberate had you clenching desperately around nothing again. your head was quick to shoot up off his shoulder at the rising temperature boiling within your core. nanami took it upon himself to quicken his pace, if only a degree faster, his strapping bicep tensing around you as he started putting in overtime.

you were breathing hard through your nose as you bit down on your lip, doing your best to hold in the moans that were threatening to spill out into the office building. you knew you’d cum just like this if he kept going, but you wanted— no, needed, more of him.

your cunt was aching. and though you could feel his unrelenting cock pinned against you he had not yet made one move to reward himself with any pleasure whatsoever.

a moan hitched in your throat, coming out as a desperate gasp for oxygen. your hand shot up to latch onto his forearm. it was a warning. “do us both a favor and just stick that cock of yours inside me already.”

his face made no change as you peered up at him, stoic as ever. it pissed you off. seeing yourself come so undone while he remained as normal as ever. like he didn’t have your weeping cunt propped up before him completely defenseless against any form of attack he wanted to pursue. he knew exactly how to push your buttons, just as you did his. you hated being on this side of the torment. everyone may not have been entirely wrong when they claimed your mouth would be the death of you. because you sure felt like you could die right here, right now, in the palm of kento nanami's hand.

he paused the movement of his fingers entirely. "you're not in a position to make demands."

without warning he slipped his inner fingers into your sopping cunt, as far as he could given his limited reach, but it was plenty enough to rip a moan from the depths of your gut. he rutted them inside until the hilt of his knuckles stopped him, pulsing them there in short spurts til you stopped holding your breath with the scream that spilled out of you. you hadn't even noticed you had been holding it. yet there you were, every move he made you were waiting there with baited breath. this man would be the death of you.

you were desperate and lacking your usual self control. it was unlike you to let your yearning cunt speak for you. especially to the 7:3 sorcerer. "please! god— fuck! please, please, nanami. please."

you were not above begging now. nanami couldn't deny how much he wanted to give in to your pleas. to fuck your pretty little cunt beyond oblivion just as you had so bluntly demanded over his desk until the wood snapped.

but that would ruin his entire lesson plan for you.

kento nanami returned his full attention to your pussy with full force, slapping four long fingers to your clit and lapping it in fat circles. you're not attempting to hold any sounds back now. even if you could you didn't want to, your noises were the highest of praises pouring from your parted lips for the beautiful blond man underneath you to keep going. you were so close it hurt. bursting at the seams at the doing of just one of his hands. what a panting, sweaty mess he made of your usually put together and composed self. but the most terrifying truth of it all was that you had no problem being at his mercy.

you gasped as you realized it, even in your state of seventh heaven. you weren't breaking this man. he was breaking you.

in a flash nanami had you on the desk. he was at the door by the time your head snapped up, stunned as you laid there propped up atop the cold wood.

nanami’s face was expressionless, but it told you everything you needed to know. you cursed at yourself under your panting breath. this was a move out of your own arsenal. and you couldn't blame him. it was about time someone gave you a taste of your own medicine. but out of all people… you didn’t realize kento nanami was the one who had it in him.

son of a fucking bitch.

he left you with a simple caveat — looking the definition of cool, calm, and collected as he readjusted his suit jacket and lugged his finished stack of paperwork out the door, "bad girls don't get to cum. let's try again next time."

[ddejavvu]

I can't get the thought of marking Hotch up with lipstick marks out of my head. Like imagine leaving a trail of kisses down from his neck to his dick. And if the lipstick is starting to fade, he'd reapply it for her so she could continue marking him

Hotch is typically more-than-professional during round table sessions, the grim atmosphere of the room setting the tone for his no-nonsense behavior. However, he can't stop himself from itching at a persistent stinging against his collarbone- probably something to do with the mark you'd sucked into his skin only hours earlier.

it's such an intense sensation that he slips a hand beneath his collar to itch it skin-on-skin, something probably unprofessional considering his environment, but one of those base human things that must be done even if it shouldn't be. A few wandering eyes note his movements, observant but neutral as a profiler should be.

It isn't until he withdraws his hand, fingers stained a crimson red, that anyone reacts.

JJ shifts in her seat, eyes blowing wide as Prentiss leans forwards, "Hotch, is that blood?"

Aaron's already grasped the edge of his manila folder with his lipstick-stained fingers, turning the yellow paper a sinful shade. He frowns, glancing down at his pristinely pressed suit, but there's nothing red against his chest.

"Your hand," Reid urges, his brows knitted in concern, but it's Derek- of course - who recognizes the red for what it really is.

"Hold on," He laughs incredulously, a great gust of air that comes out like a bark, "Hold on, hold on, hold on, that came off'a your chest?"

Caught red-handed, Hotch composes himself, which is a very stark difference to the way that his team dissolves into teasing giggles. Penelope has clapped a hand over her mouth, perhaps the only way she can hold herself back from opening it.

"Settle down." Hotch attempts, but Rossi undermines him with an exasperated groan. Once the oldest of the team proves unreachable Hotch knows he's lost the room, and sits in stony silence while he waits for his coworkers to finish getting their fill.

"My man." Morgan declares, clapping Hotch on the shoulder with a strong hand he's lucky not to lose, "She got you in the doorway this morning, didn't she?"

"We're talking about dead teenagers, here." Hotch reminds them, raising a brow as Emily, Penelope, and JJ collapse into girlish giggles, "Can we please focus on the case?"

"This is on you, Hotch." Rossi levels him with what's supposed to be an unimpressed glare, and what really comes off as a smirk, "It's not their fault you come to work with lipstick under your clothes."

"I have to ask Y/N for that shade," Penelope gushes, but at Hotch's warning glare she grabs her remote and retakes her place beside the viewing screen, "But-! But our trusty boss is right, there are lives on the line here. So- um, incriminating lipstick stains pushed to the back of the mind, we'll start up again on our case."

Hotch's shoulders relax as the team sinks back into careful contemplation of the case details. He thinks he's escaped scrutiny altogether thanks to the shocking violence of this particular unsub, but it's three days later when he hears about the lipstick stains again.

Surprisingly, it's Reid that comes to torture him, and the slick comment comes when Hotch is forced into sharing a motel room with him. Communal bathrooms are in the middle of the complex, but it's easier to change in their rooms. He unbuckles his belt facing the corner of the small room, giving Reid space to change himself, and giving both of them as much privacy as possible.

"Careful, Hotch," Reid calls, voice misleadingly kind-hearted which lures Aaron into a sense of security, "There's a gap in the curtains behind where you're standing. You wouldn't want any onlookers to see any more lipstick Y/N left behind."

Hotch decides that Reid is worse than Morgan. Morgan is expected to be crass, so it's not a shock when it's delivered. Reid, however, is one to watch out for.

"Reid," Hotch responds, hearing Spencer's breathy laughter already bubbling from his throat, "I'm sticking you on desk duty for a month when we get back."

[bunni-v1]

Literally at the post office but I CANNOT get Lycaon and Hugo off my mind.

MDNI

They’re so very opposite in the way they approach everything, there’s no way it’s not the same in the bedroom. Like c’mon think of the possibilities of taking both of them at the same time. They’re so good, but I can’t get ahead of myself. Let’s establish how they are separately.

Firstly, Lycaon is all things gentle and loving. He is nothing if not a giver when it comes to your pleasure. Slow and steady in pace, he takes his time with you. His touch leaves no part of your body neglected, carefully taking in all you have to offer him. He is purposeful and each movement has intent to make you sigh.

It’s like he’s trying to swallow you up in your own pleasure, wave after wave you are drowning in his unending love for you. Sex is an extension of his admiration for you, he does not want it to be anything less than that. So he takes his time, ensuring you feel nothing but loved. It’s overwhelming, but that’s how he feels about you. Overwhelmed in his adoration, he lets it all out here.

He may be a wolf therian, but he is no more than a lovesick puppy between your legs. Claws and teeth dulled from gnawing on the kindness you’ve given him. He is stony and cold on the outside, but his heart has melted into mush for you. This is the easiest way he knows how to reciprocate, to show you he loves you when he cannot find a way otherwise.

Hugo, on the other hand, is fast and exciting. Passion in all he touches, he leaves trails of fire across your skin with his cool touch. It’s light and teasing, intent on making you squirm and cry beneath it, teasing you until you cannot think about anything other than him.

He wants you to drown in him, have himself etched into you brain, unable to think of anything but him. You’ll suffocate in the overwhelming pressure of his desire to see you come apart. To him, sex is fun and light, a passionate dance between the two of you. Maybe even a stress reliever at times, but it’s nothing serious, it’s just something you two do. Something thrilling only the two of you can share!

Speaking truthfully, behind his bravado and cheerful facade, he wants to consume you. He desires nothing more than to drink you up, watching each curve and twitch you have to offer him. There is no treasure in the world more perfect than you, and he knows how lucky he is to have it in the palm of his hands. So, he keeps it fun, light, easy for you. Anything you desire he gives up, because what is sex if not fun?

When they come together, it’s like fire and ice. They cannot decide who is right in how the pleasure. Lycaon insists you must be treated with care, Hugo complains about his boring style and suggests more fun! It’s quite a conundrum, but why can’t it be both? You can have fun and still feel loved, so surely they can come to an agreement?

Oh, they most certainly do. By some miracle, of course, they’re able to set aside their differences for you. Leaned agains Hugo’s chest with Lycaon between your legs, you may have to reconsider your fate. Lycaon laps at you, drinking you up as if he’d gone without fluid for days. Hugo has you speared on him, smiling all satisfied as he watches you crumble apart between them.

Lycaon inhales deeply, clearly enjoying himself a bit too much, not that you had room to criticize. What with the way you can’t keep your mouth shut, it was smarter not to poke fun at him. A particularly nice roll of his tongue had you fluttering around Hugo’s shaft. He chuckles at the sensation, kissing up your shoulder as if to encourage you.

“They liked that one,” He hums, fingers dancing along your stomach.

Lycaon doesn’t pay him any mind, far too focused on swallowing you up. You’d think he were a man starved with how vigorous he was. Your head pressed back into Hugo’s shoulder, only to be corrected by the man. Firm grasp on your chin keeping your eyes where they belong, focused on Lycaon. It drew a squeak of surprise out of you, and that was the first time Lycaon paused, narrowing a warning glare on Hugo from his place between your legs.

Hugo smiles, “Continue, please.”

“Be gentle,” Lycaon grumbles back, the vibrations of his deep voice sending your head spinning.

He returns with more vigor, lapping at you with more energy now. Seems he was eager to have you finish, thanks to Hugo’s annoyance. If you had half the mind, you might’ve thanked him, but when Lycaon begins to suck on you… well… most thoughts fly out your brain. Replaced only with him, his name falling from your lips over and over.

You wind your fingers through his fur, pulling him closer to you. The friction addicting in your hazy state. Lycaon directs a smirk up at you, watching your expression with unabashed delight. Unfortunately, you only get to enjoy the expression for a few moments before the two do you are caught off guard by an abrupt thrust from Hugo.

Lycaon pulls back fast enough that his teeth don’t catch on anything sensitive, and they snap together with a loud click of annoyance. Hugo does not stop his thrusting though, hands squeezing your hips as he guides you to bounce in time with him. Based on the look Lycaon has, he was most definitely taunting the therian.

Not to be deterred, Lycaon shifts focus. Decidedly kissing up your body, taking his time in worshiping you while Hugo does his best to make you fall apart. He fits perfectly inside, dick rubbing against your walls just right. Just enough to drive you mad, but not quite enough to push you over the edge yet.

Your mind is melting, chest heaving with effort at every new sensation. Lycaon’s heated kisses across your chest and Hugo’s throbbing member inside you working like a team to make you jelly. You nearly choke on air when Lycaon nibbles at the side of your neck. It’s like they want you to die here, suffocated between their unrelenting heat.

Cold fingers find their way down to your heat, playing with you in a lose way. It was just simple teasing, a means to make you fall deeper into pleasure, but it worked too well. Between the soft and sweet kisses and the rapid thrusting, it was just what you needed to cum for them.

A cry of someone’s name, you’re not aware enough to know who’s, rips from your throat. Your body shakes, hands grabbing onto whatever they can. The thrusting does not stop, Hugo fucking you through your orgasm, until you are abruptly pulled away into warm arms. You promptly lose consciousness for a few moments, and when you wake, you are being cleaned off by Lycaon with a warm rag.

He is cross, though not at you. Just annoyed, but he still finds in himself to smile at you sweetly. A clawed hand cups your face, thumbing your cheek sweetly. You lean into the touch, smiling back at him.

“You are alright, my love?” He asks with a deep grumble.

You nod, again smiling to reassure him. Sore, but you are alright. Someone shuffles in the room from the bathroom, and Lycaon sighs as Hugo takes his spot next to you. He cuddles you into his chest, cooing at your flushed face with playful admiration.

“You did very well, darling! Did you enjoy yourself?” He asks, and though his tone is light, you know he means the question truthfully.

You nod, “Of course I did.”

He hums, “Good, good~ Can’t have your needs going unanswered. Though, I’m a little disappointed…”

You frown at that, insecurity crawling up your back at the sudden change in tone, “What’s wrong? Do you not enjoy yourself too?”

He laughs, shaking his head, and you hear Lycaon audibly scoff from across the room where he is still cleaning things up.

“Of course I did! It’s just…” He sighs, dramatically looking away.

“Just what?” You urge.

He waits another moment, smirking to himself, “Well, I did all that work, and you cry out his name instead of mine. It really hurts.”

You blink at him, unable to find a response to his stupid hold up. Luckily, Lycaon seems to find it for you, “Perhaps you didn’t do enough for them.”

“I beg your pardon!” He shouts, jumping upright from his position.

You can only sigh as they start bickering with one another.

[antidesire]

specialize in havin' fun. antidesire

disclaimer, 18+ only. f!reader x logan howlett, logan is ancient so obvi age gap? idk who this is for, what am i doing? think im the dick-sucking writer, i seem to always write about it. no established relationship, reader and logan fool around but reader is head over heels for him. this is just porn, I didn't intend to write logan so rough I think I went off the rails. roughness, a lil non-con??? forcefulness, oral m! receiving, boot.. fucking >:), saliva, desperate!reader, pet names, hair pulling, I haven't written in so long I forgot how to tag, lmk if I miss anything, sorry this is garbage babe.

reblogging, interacting and sending feedback is always much appreciated, requests are open !! ♡

logan's boots hit the stony pavement with a thud, leg swinging over the body of his motorcycle, propping it up diligently. what a fucking day, with a sharp inhale, he tried to shrug off any lingering thoughts that were worming around his brain.

your apartment was a humble and homely one, sure, sometimes the water would either scald you or, leave you falling on your ass when it blasted you with an ice-cold wake-up call, but you had decent neighbours, ones that didn't pry, or make a lot of noise, lot's of privacy, logan liked that, though he'd put up with anything for a night with you.

though this habit of leaving your door unlatched because you expected him, was something he didn't want to put up with, had he not taught you better?

"told you not to do that.." logan mummers under his breath, lord knows any fucker that tried to creep into the naively sweet girl's apartment, is one dead fucker.

pushing the door open, he was greeted with the familiar warmth of the living room, a chiffon scarf with tassels draped over the lamp on the tableside, drenching the room in tranquillity, candlelight flickering to compliment the dimly lit ambiance, he almost slammed the front door shut, as though the outside would taint it if it got too long of a look.

like a domino effect, just the click of the door scrambled you to your feet, tripping over the blanket thrown over your shoulders, "logan!" your hush whisper sounded just as excited as every other time he walked through the door, as though it was a script you followed.

"hey bab- ouh," logan huffed out, your head smacking against his chest first, your arms following in quick succession, squeezing tightly around his chest, "one day you're gonna give yourself a concussion doin' that."

muffled laughs vibrated against his chest. when you breathed in you could smell the gasoline on his clothing, and that cologne he wore, smelt earthy, woody, and a little citrus too.

impatient as always when it came to overtaking all your senses with the man you were enamored with, your fingers find the bulkiest part of logan's arms, not nearly enough length on them to get close to fully engulfing the meaty muscle of them, you squeezed and forced them both around your upper waist, encouraging him to hold you tighter, you wanted to feel light-headed with him.

if you could see the soppy smile that stretched on his face, eyes wrinkled with delight, you would've pounced further on him, "how do you do it?" your head raised at his question, chin digging uncomfortably into his sternum, he continues, "exist when i'm not here for you to love up on me?" logan's fingers tapped up your back, under the shirt of his you were adorned in, the blanket you had over you, long forgotten about.

your cheeks puffed out and lips parted, but only an exhale left them. you quickly shook your head, only nudging into him for more comfort.

“c’mere,” it was quite comical because any closer would’ve been impossible, though you craved it, with a push under your chin, logan leaned down, and without another beat he pushed his lips to yours, his thumb, followed by a trickling of his fingers trailing downwards along your neck, resting his grip mindfully there, as though the kiss hadn’t dazed you enough.

hoo boy, you were easy.

logan had years on him- years was an understatement, and you, this doe-eyed girl, hopelessly head over heels to please him, it was dangerous, logan felt guilty, soiling such a deer.

it was perverse.

it was perverse when he first rammed into you and you choked out the cutest little sob he had ever heard, eyes flooding with fat tears, he had tensed himself, so much restraint it took out of him to even think about pulling out after all the effort it took to push his cock inside you, you’d noticed and in a bit of a panic, “no- nonono.” your legs raised up and around his hips, the heels of your feet pushing against his back, “keep— hngh, stay, can do it.. i can do it.” your breath was so unsteady, “please.” and who was he to deny such a brave girl?

and now when he felt your lips part, trying to sloppily catch up with his own, fingers fumbling awkwardly at the lower hem of his raggedy white tank top, it was perverse.

it didn’t have to go like this every time, but it did, it got out of control, and fast, every single damn time.

logan's beard was dark, mostly, with little flecks of grey if you looked close enough. it scratched your pretty face deliciously when you pushed up further into the kiss, your hands exposing his tanned midriff, wandering upward to his chest, covered in coarse hair, you squeezed his flesh under your greedy fingertips every time you grazed over his waist.

the last thing logan would ever tell you to do was slow down, as much as he reveled in control, seeing you like this, your thoughts at the back of your mind, all action and no consequence, just what feels good, it was euphoric for him.

his nose prodded against yours as his tongue invaded your mouth, the sound of wet lips smacking and breaths hitching, you only let up when a sharp twinge of pain jolted at your scalp, logan's grip from your neck had moved up toward your hair, a bunched handful that arched your body delightfully against his own.

just sometimes, he'd have to nod you in a direction, when you got all fuzzy in the head for him you would've been feeling up on him with your tongue down his throat until your knee's buckled- just a little nod.

with another tug, you let logan maneuver you to the floor, not so gracefully when your knees thudded against the wood, but you didn't flinch, making quick work of his leather belt, the thing was heavy, a big brass oval buckle being the obstacle between him being down your throat already.

logan ever so kindly helped when he tugged the rest of the belt through the loops, it clattering to the ground beside his boots, next came the pop of his button and a quick push of the zipper downwards, flickering his eyes to where you were sitting, knees squashed underneath you, palms on each side of his thighs, and big pupils ghosting over his fingers.

"look at me baby." his thumb prodded at your bottom lip, inviting it to slip past and rest on your tongue, your eyes blinking up at logan, and your head tilting a little when your fingers scrunched the denim of his jeans.

his thumb pushed against your tongue and his finger hooked under your chin, pulling you into him until your cheek smushed into his abdomen and he retracted his hand, pushing his strained cock against your mouth.

you darted your tongue out and felt the texture of his briefs against it, eager fingers nudging the elastic down just enough to get him out of the fabric, barely letting his cock twitch as it met the air, a line of open-mouthed kisses trailing from the underside of his cock, hazily trailing the vein your tongue searched for, the one that leads straight up to his tip.

“s’like you’re drunk when you get like this,” logan hums, his grip on your hair was loose now, you made the prettiest distraction he’d ever laid eyes on, his thighs clenched and he twitched against your mouth again, already shallowly fucking up against your lips, “you remember last time? gotta take it easy, baby.”

last time, was partly logan’s fault, far too carried away in the warmth and slippery slick of your mouth that he had forgotten how big he was, and how small you were, how small your mouth was, it was an easy mistake when you always took anything he threw at you so sweetly, even if it ended with you gagging so uncontrollably, you almost threw up, oops.

your skin warmed out of humiliation at the gentle reminder, hastily leaning up on your knees, either of your legs sprawled out beside you when you reached up to hook both of your fingers in either side of his belt loops on his jeans, a steady handle now you opened your sticky-glossed lips and pushed the tip of his cock into your mouth, that familiar ache in your jaw not tearing down your confidence, but fuck, he was big and thick.

he tasted salty and he felt heavy in your mouth when you shoved more of him past your lips, shocks of hot lust pulsing straight between your legs whenever you heard the man above you even so much as sigh.

here he was, not even five footsteps into the room, with his pretty little thing kneeling before him as though he was a deity you praised, and devoted yourself to, in truth further condemning yourself with a life of sin, much to the both of your pleasures.

your head bobbed, and every so often you'd pull your head upward and curl your tongue around the red-hot tip of him, decorating him with sticky kisses, before he got a little too riled and there came that pulse of pain in your scalp again.

"that's very cute," the mewl that sounded in your throat was buried as soon as he pushed on the back of your head, and stuffed his cock down your throat, "i said take it fucking easy, but don't push your luck sweetheart."

your eyes almost bulged when you felt the tip of his boot nudge in between your legs, awkwardly bouncing until you feel it slip underneath you, flush against your aching warmth, "ffu-" you choked out, a stray fat tear trickling down your puffed out cheeks, mixing in the mess of saliva that pushes past your lips when logan keeps fucking up into your mouth.

"sshush, shsh." he coos out, his fingers that were previously tangled into your hair moving to your cheek, wiping at your sweet little tear, "I got you, baby, relax." his voice was as smooth as honey, and you took a second to still yourself, unclenching your jaw, as much as you could whilst he was rammed into your throat impatiently, exhaling out of your nose and hollowing your cheeks, taking a stronger grip on the hoops of his belt, for your own sanity because the way he tilted the tip of his boot up against your pussy was wickedly evil.

the thin layer of your short shorts did little to help you, you'd spoiled them as soon as his lips meshed with yours earlier.

another inhale,

exhale,

you managed to slide your mouth down much more fluidly this time, even tugging him flush against you, until the hairs at the base of him tickled your nose, you tried your best to pay no attention to the way logan had his boot in between your legs, no, no attention to the way your hips had a mind of their own, swaying against the hard material, your clit bumping deliciously every time you breathed him in, and raised your head and letting it fall in a rhythm.

the sounds that parted from logan's lips were otherworldly, his timbre was guttural and he got increasingly vocal, "fuhhck, mm," logan's brow bone had wrinkled, bliss evident, even in the way his head tilts to watch more darling little tears push past your eyes, "wish you'd greet me like this every day, ah, ah!" he hissed out, the muscles in his thighs tensing when you jolt him forward by the loops in his denim jeans, and he hits the back of your damn throat, and you take it.

cocky, that’s what you were being, and he loved every single drop of it, “gonna be a good little girl, make me cum, mm? yeah?” logan hums, feeling you squeeze his legs in approval.

good little girl,

if there were any three words to put together to make you putty in logan howlett’s hands, it was those.

your little sobs were more evident every time you lifted your head to pay some sweet attention to his tip, collecting the dribbles of sticky precum at the tip of him, rutting yourself against his boot which didn’t fly by logan’s head- no matter how enamored he was with his dick down your throat, “desperate for me to ruin every single bit of you, have a little more respect for yourself sweetheart.” he chuckled out, cruel.

if you weren’t so full of him, your senses screaming loganloganlogan, you would’ve said something, you would’ve scowled at least.

“you’re so pretty like this, let me fuck your throat yeah? you want that?” it wasn’t a question, logan’s rough hands settled on either side of your head and not missing a beat, he was thrusting into your mouth, forcefully, and hard.

his grip was stable, far too strong for you to do anything, anything but your arms flailing and clawing up at his chest, even tearing a hole in his white undershirt that bunched up under his arms.

too much. your brain screeched in panic, but your body betrayed you, helplessly fucking yourself against his boot with your thighs squashed on either side, and holy fuck, you were cumming, your puffy clit rubbing perfectly, and the lack of air did something so euphoric, it was all so wrong, but it could only be right when your body pulsed with pleasure so overwhelmingly you could do nothing but trust him, and let those fat crocodile tears stream down your face.

“sh-shit, did you just cum?” he laughs, he fucking laughs, “ahnngn, that’s so sexy.” logan was losing it, his fingertips pressed into the plush of your cheeks, hips getting sloppy as he neared his high.

one, two, three more thrusts, stuffing himself into your mouth and he is cumming for what feels like an eternity, hot and sticky fluid gushing into your mouth and spilling past your lips, dripping onto your thighs.

he lets up and eases out of your mouth when he squeezes the rest of his spend onto your tongue, gesturing with a nod of his head, “there’s my sweet girl.” you swallow, and it hurts, the strain in your throat, in your jaw, between your legs, every inch of you feels used.

“thank you, lo.” you barely scratch out, knees trembling when you lean up, nuzzling your face against his abdomen, your arms clasping around his waist for comfort, his stomach gleamed with sweat and saliva too, somehow.

logan lifted you to your feet in a swift motion, one of his hands under your arms as the other tucked his dick back into his briefs, getting you to the couch, wrapping that previously forgotten about blanket around you, “i’m gonna run us a bath, you stay here.” his lips pressed a kiss so delicately to your forehead that you felt it almost regenerate your entire body.

“can you stay for a second longer?” your voice was small, unstable.

“m’ not leaving.” logan finds it endearing, honestly a little heartbreaking, “you can’t walk and your shoulders are up to your ears sweet, lemme get a bath going,” he explains, more reassuringly but you still grumble.

he sighs at that, you barely even recognize you are horizontal after what feels like a long blink, one of logan’s arms snugly under your knees whilst the other held your upper back, and he walked onwards to the bathroom, “you remind me of a little lamb like this.” he observed, and laid another sweet kiss, this time to your lips, and your stomach churned in delight, he reassured you once again, just for tonight,

“don’t worry, i’m not leaving yet.”

[multi-fandom-imagine]

Chest heaving, you pushed yourself to run faster despite your legs burning. Heart pounding in your ears as you jumped over logs, shoes splashing in whatever water you hit.

The sound of wings growing ever closer, as you let your eyes dart around. Pausing you shrugged off your jacket tossing in one direction as you took off in the other. That seemed to have distracted the creature of a moment but of course you did not get very far as you felt a claw wrap around your wrist, your feet hovering a few feet off the ground as your body hit a strong and sturdy chest.

"Gotcha"

A stoney cheek nuzzling into your neck as your feet finally touched the ground. "How did I do?"

"You're gettin a lot better dollface" Stan shot you a smile, his wings folding in, a stony nail moving under your chin forcing you to look up at him as he clicked his tongue. "Though stripin for me, that's a new one." His red gaze locked on your form, shoulders bare.

Humming, you placed your hand on his chest as they slowly trailed down his pants though just as you were about to unbutton them the shrill scream followed by Stan getting body stopped your movement. Two little girls found themselves sitting on top of their father's chest. While from a far anyone would have mistaken them for human but on closer inspection they were anything but.

Tiny horns peaked through their hair, little claws dug into their father's chest as their tail's swayed back and forth. Little wings not strong enough to help them fly but that never stopped them from trying too. "Got you daddy!"

Falling back, rather dramatically Stan wrapped his arms around his twins as the girls let out a shriek of laughter. "Ah can't believe you pulled a fast one on your old man."

Smiling, you crossed your arms over your chest. It was an adorable sight. While you may not have been turned it never stopped you from loving Stan or your girls any less. "Alright you three, time to head back home...mommy is tired."

While the twins may have whined they didn't protest, instead they let themselves perch upon Stan's shoulders as he stepped closed to you bringing you to his side. One claw gliding across your hip as his tail wove around your hips. "We'll continue our little game later beautiful."

"I'll hold you to it Pines."

A/n: Than you to @gravity-falls-fanatic89 for the idea of the kids!

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Steadfast 4

Warnings: non/dubcon, power imbalance, obsession, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: King!Bucky Barnes (Medieval AU)

A Knights, Kings, and Knaves Story

Summary: you serve Duke Rogers, but when his friend, the king, takes an interest, you find your work in turmoil.

Note: I’ve wanted to do medieval drabbles for years. I bit the bullet and now we’re all doomed. I was torn on whether to make this one Stucky however… I think Steve deserves a wifey in his own installment.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

The days turn gray as you ride for the river. The nights are short but dark. You sleep by a fire under the king's cloak as he keeps watch. He dozes astride, often lurching and snoring behind you. His heat, his proximity, grows familiar if not smothering.

For all your life, the divide between servant and master has been kept wide. That rift between you always steep and retractable. Now, it is nothing but a whisper.

The king's hand remain on the reins despite his fatigue. Yours are lower down on the leather. You wear the mittens of lamb's wool he found for you along with a plain but lined cloak. He is a masterful barterer.

The horse snorts as it descends the bump incline. The smell of water dampens in your nose and nips at your cheeks. You see a dock ahead along the coastline. There are boats and barges, voices hollering up into the sky, the grind of wood and billow of sail. You lean forward and squint to see it clearer.

"Gander's Crossing." The king startles you with the declaration as he straightens in the saddle. "It will lead us to sea. It is those deeper tides I worry for."

"Worry?" The word wisps from you before you can stop it.

"Yes, even I worry," he assures you. "Why shouldn't I when I have more than myself to trouble my soul?"

"A whole kingdom," you murmur, "your highness."

He hushes you. "Certainly, yes, a people alone."

You rock with the horse as he guides it down the stony pass. He waves as he comes closer to the dockers and calls 'ho'. He dismounts as you feel gazes in your direction. You stay with the horse as he speaks with a captain.

"Double gold, for your trouble..." the offer rises loud enough to hear. You can see the reticence in the grey-haired man.

"...not the horse that's the problem..."

Their voices lower again. When at last, they part, it is with the clink of coin between them. The king stalks back to the horse and works at unleashing the saddle bangs from its rump. He sighs.

"Stay close as ever," he warns.

You obey and trail him down with the horse. He passes over the steed to a boatman and he beckons you with him. There are more gazes and you wonder if they know who he is. Yet, there eyes barely seem to snag him.

"Men of the sea are wary of women," he affirms as he herds you up the ramp.

You shrink down. Oh. You come upon the barge as the king lingers like a shadow.

You're shown to a cabin. The tilt of the boat makes you dizzy. You teeter and back into the king. He catches you with his hands on your hips.

"You'll get your sea legs yet," he bids. "Best to sit."

The room is small. There is something hanging from the ceiling. You feel along the wall and slide down to sit on your feet. You feel better, less treacherous. He goes to the fabric strung from above.

He spreads the cloth and turns. He maneuvers himself into it, landing in the odd sheath that cradles him. It rocks with the boats idling sway. You shift and sit on your bottom, hugging your knees.

"A hammock. A sailor's bed," he explains.

You dip your chin down. You've only ever slept on straw and floor. You'll do just fine down here.

"I will find us some food when we set off. Let the boatsmen lift anchor first," he says. "I wouldn't mind a moment to close my eyes."

"Yes, your highness."

He hums. "There is enough room for you as well..."

"Your highness..."

"Pip," he opens an eye and looks at you.

"Poppet," you correct yourself. He grins.

"Very well. Keep mind to the bucket in the corner, lest your stomach join the river in churning," he wiggles and closes his eyes again. He yawns and drapes his arm over his face. Your eyes dart to the pail. It might not be unwise advice.

👑

You shiver as you hug the bucket. Your back racks and you ready for another violent heave. Your stomach twists but does not upend. Cold sweat drips down your forehead. You temples throb as the waves lash at the side of the boat in a startling cacophony.

"Dear pip," the king kneels beside you and mops your brow with a wet cloth. "It will pass."

Your teeth chatter and you gag. There's nothing left in you to expel. You groan and shield your face with your hand. You are humiliated.

"Is this... death?" You babble.

He laughs softly, "no, sweet pip. You are unused to the sea, that is all."

You moan again. He pulls your hand away from your face and presses his knuckles to your cheek. You lean into their comforting warmth.

"Rest will do you well," he draws you over to him as he stretches his arm over your shoulder. You shiver and slacken against him weakly. He rubs your arm as he holds you. You're too sick to care for propriety.

"My apologies, my king. I've never... never been about."

"Oh, do not apologise, sweet pip," he cooes and pets your hair. "When I was a boy. Oh, you could ask the duke yourself. We went upon a large galley. I was rather eager to be upon it but once we could not see the shore, I was but a puddle of sick."

You groan and cling to his cloak as your insides constrict. The bile sears your throat but gets no further. He hums and reaches below your cloak to rub your stomach.

"Be calm," he caresses you through your dress. "You will survive this, pip. You are ever strong."

His hand continues to move as you shake. The water hits the boat and the voices of men carry on the wind whistling above. He leans back with you against him and extends his legs out. He keeps you again him and his hand crawls along your hip. You quiver and it falls onto your thigh. He leans his head against yours as you start to hiccup.

"This night will pass," he assures, fingers tracing the wrinkles in your dress. "And we will be here still."

[my-castles-crumbling]

Embarassing

Thanks @zoerest97 for the awesome idea!

"James Potter?" the nurse called, looking like she wanted to be anywhere but the waiting room of an oral surgeon's office at 3pm on a Tuesday.

"Yes! Me!" James nearly-yelled, standing in a rush.

He wasn't nervous. He was just...nervous. Regulus was his everything, and imagining his boyfriend being cut open, even if only to extract his teeth, was making him want to tear his own hair out.

"You're ridiculous" Regulus scolded him this morning as he refused to let go of the shorter man's hand, though he smiled while saying so. It was no secret Regulus liked the attention. "I'll be fine, Potter."

But now, as he followed the nurse into the small room to collect his boyfriend, he was just glad everything had gone alright.

"Reg," he breathed, taking in Regulus's form, laid out on a reclined chair, walking forward.

It wasn't until he was only a step away that Regulus turned, breaking into a face-spitting grin.

"James!" he exclaimed, voice a bit muffled by the gauze in his mouth. "Jamie, I missed you so much."

At first, James thought it was sarcasm, until Regulus stood and stumbled forward, wrapping his arms around James's waist and attaching himself there.

"Never leave again," he whispered into the fabric of James's shirt, leaving a trail of drool there.

James blinked. "Erm...is he okay?" he asked the nurse. "He's not usually so..."

"He's just still coming off of the laughing gas," the nurse said in a bored voice. "He'll be fine in a few hours. Take him home and let him sleep it off."

James nodded, half-dragging Regulus out of the office.

-

"Oi, Moony! I have a recording to show you!" Sirius shouted a week later, grinning devilishly.

"No," Regulus said, face stony. "Not again, Sirius, I swear to God, I'll murder you."

But it was too late. Sirius had his phone out, pressing it in front of Remus's face. Regulus, meanwhile, covered his face with his hands.

"Ey, Reg!" On-screen Sirius called, the camera showing a drowsy-looking Regulus, who held an ice pack to his cheek. "How do you feel about my boy, James?"

On-screen Regulus's eyes got huge. "James? Oh, he's perfect. I love him. I love him so much, Sirius, so much more than he knows. But don't tell him, it's embarrassing how much I love him, really. Gods, I'd do anything for him and-"

"Alright," James admonished, taking the phone and locking it. But the pleased expression on his face was unavoidable.

[flowerandblood]

The Price of Pride (16/?)

[ canon • Aemond x Royce • female ]

[ warnings: sex content, unprotected sex, targcest stuff, smut, the angst, sexual tension, imprisonment, abuse of power ]

[ description: Prince Aemond finds a solution to the disproportion in the number of dragons between Dragonstone and King's Landing: he decides to find dragon blood and, like his half-sister, train dragon riders. He takes as his target the daughter of Daemon Targaryen and Rhea Royce, whom he abducts and imprisons in the Red Keep. Slow burn, darkish, insolent, arrogant Aemond. I have combined several requests here: (dragon blood female & prisoner female). ]

* English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy! *

Next chapters: Masterlist

_____

She didn't know if there was a worse humiliation for a man than being forced to fuck his wife in front of other people – on top of that, if he was listening to mockery from his own brother. She didn't know what to do to help him, so she simply covered his ears so that he couldn't hear what Aegon was saying.

He had always been a twat.

He'd been lying with his first for years, surely imagining it was our mother.

Say, cousin, does he cuddle up to your tits too?

Does he suck on your nipples like a little baby?

She knew he was saying it to hurt them both and was furious that he had partly succeeded – she felt pain and discomfort at the thought of her husband returning to the embrace of another woman, the woman he trusted, the woman he desired, the woman he felt safe with.

The realisation that nothing he had experienced with her was new to him filled her with sadness.

She knew, however, that her husband was suffering more now and it was him she should focus on.

She prayed that Aegon's words didn't reach his ears – he was truly focused on his task, preserved in the embrace of her arms, cuddled into her breasts simply pursuing his peak, treating her body like his own hand.

He had to do this, and she begged in her mind for him to simply come, moaning softly, wanting to give him courage and deafen whatever was leaving his brother's mouth.

She felt a squeeze in her throat when he lifted his head, when she saw his gaze full of sadness and regret begging her to comfort him – she took his face in her hands and let their lips melt together in a wonderfully warm, tender kiss.

She sighed loudly when she felt his warm seed finally spill inside her, and he groaned quietly, moving inside her for a moment longer.

It wasn't until everyone had left and they remained alone that he burst out crying like a small child.

She wasn't surprised – she herself had been horrified by how cruel this spectacle had been, and wondered if this was how his brother had treated him all his life.

She finally understood why he hid behind a stony face, why he was cold and aggressive, why he was endlessly anxious to prove his worth – whatever he did, what he suffered in the end was humiliation.

She stroked his body and embraced him, lying behind him on the soft bedding, singing him the lullabies that her nanny used to sing to her when she was still a little child. Her voice must have been to his liking, because eventually he turned in her arms and cuddled his face between her soft breasts, demanding more.

So she sang for so long until she finally felt him fall asleep.

She flinched and twisted in her place, awakened in the middle of the night from a deep slumber as she felt his hand on her waist – his lips placed a soft, warm kiss on her neck while his fingers slid slowly between her thighs – she sighed, not opening her eyes, unsure if it was a dream or not, feeling his fingertips sink into her delicate, silky folds.

"– mmm –" She hummed, feeling a pleasant tickle in her lower abdomen as his fingers began to play with her little bud, trailing around it in lazy, slow strokes, slowly building tension deep inside her.

"– shhh – sleep –" He whispered in her ear, placing moist, gentle little kisses on her face – his other hand slid under her body and closed over her breast, teasing her hard, popping nipple, his fingers between her thighs soaked in her wetness.

"– ah –" She moaned as she felt his hard manhood hit her buttocks, then again and again – she sighed as his hand gripped her silken thigh and spread it, lifting it slightly upwards, the swollen, thick head of his erection pushed against her slit, opening her wide.

"– Aemond –" She mumbled out as he began to groan along with her, slowly sliding all the way into her, imposing an aggressive, fast pace on her at once. His fingers slid down from her breasts to her throbbing womanhood – while the tip of his length rubbed the spot deep inside her again and again, his fingertips stroked her little pearl from the outside.

She squirmed, clasping her hand on his arm, panting loudly along with him, listening to the way their bare hips pounded against each other with loud, sticky splats.

"– yes – yes, yes, yes, yes, please –" She begged, feeling that she was so wonderfully close, his hot, accelerated breath on her face telling her that he wanted nothing more than for her to come.

"– shhh – come on, soak my cock – thaat's it, there we go –" He whispered tenderly into her ear as her fleshy walls pulsed around his hard manhood in spasms of pleasure – she threw her head back, moaning sweetly along with him, feeling her moisture run down her thigh when, after a few messy, sloppy thrusts, her husband filled her with his seed with a sigh of relief.

She swallowed hard when he put his arms around her and hugged her back to his torso, entwining their legs together, leaving his throbbing length deep inside her.

"– can we remain like this? –" He asked quietly, and she nodded.

"– yes – I want to feel you –" She muttered, and he hummed contentedly, placing a warm, affectionate kiss on her bare shoulder.

She thought that she was going to experience nothing but rest until sunrise, but as soon as her husband awoke, still before dawn, he turned her gently onto her stomach and used her body to his heart's content.

"– ah – mghm – g-gods –" She mewled, half sunk in sleep, clasping her hands on the soft bedding beneath her, feeling the sweet tension in her loins again as he pounded into her from behind with loud smacks of their hips, hitting her little spot again and again.

"– sleep –" He breathed out in a voice heavy with desire, their bodies hot and throbbing, his swollen erection thrusting hard between her soft, warm thighs, not letting her escape.

She gasped as she came with him, listening to his groans of pleasure, unsure how many times he had done this to her – when she awoke, her cunt was all sore, leaking with his spend.

"– how many times have you taken me through the night? –" She mumbled, snuggled into his bare chest, trying to count in her thoughts.

Three?

Four?

Probably four, she thought.

"– I don't know what you mean – I slept like a little baby –" He murmured softly, running his fingertips down her back, not opening his eye.

She huffed quietly, knowing that he did this because he wanted to regain control over the situation, that he couldn't allow their closeness to be associated with the humiliation he had suffered because of his brother.

"– how am I supposed to fly on Sheepstealer today if I struggle to even sit down? –" She asked resentfully and heard him sigh heavily.

"– you had no objections then –" He grunted.

When, she wanted to ask to tease him further, but she didn't dare.

She raised herself on her elbow and shook her head, amused.

"– you must promise to let my poor, aching womanhood rest –" She said softly.

He pressed his lips together, tracing her bare, girlish body with the gaze of his healthy eye.

"– for how long? –" He asked uncertainly, unhappy.

She stroked his head with her fingers, looking at him with tenderness, his gaze fixed on her face gentle.

"– one night should be enough –" She replied.

He hummed under his breath and nodded.

"– mmm – very well – you have satisfied me many times tonight – you deserve to rest –" He muttered, and she placed a loud, lingering kiss on his cheek.

"– let's eat together –"

Despite the unpleasant events of last evening, the thought that they would be having a morning meal together for the first time filled them with good mood – her husband, dressed only in a linen shirt and breeches, sat down at the table as she headed for the seat on the other side, putting her nightgown over her shoulders.

"– what are you doing? –" He asked, grabbing for the bread, looking at her in surprise. "– take a seat by my side – unless I'm terrifying you so much –"

She smiled at his words and moved towards him, sitting down in the chair right next to him.

She wanted their closeness to be based on his desire – for him to know that he had control over what was happening between them and that she would not impose on him even as his wife.

It was the first time she'd seen what he ate in the morning – it didn't surprise her that he reached for scrambled eggs – a source of protein and strength he needed before sparring and training. She smiled under her breath as she herself reached for a platter of oatmeal, pouring it into her small bowl before pouring warm milk over it.

They ate in silence, but it was a pleasant kind of it, devoid of discomfort or tension – she couldn't help but smile, catching him glancing at her once in a while, the expression on his face gentle and content. She reached out her hand to him – he hummed under his breath and grasped her fingers in his, stroking her soft skin with his thumb.

So this is what her days will be like now, she thought, feeling nothing but peace for some reason.

"– I have a gift for you –" She said lightly.

He blinked and cocked his head, his smirk indicating that he was curious and excited.

"– mmm –"

She quickly ate a few spoonfuls of her porridge and rose from her seat, walking to one of the chests that had been moved to his chamber the day before.

Her Prince had wished her to have some of her belongings in his quarters, so that when she spent nights with him she could stay in his room in comfort.

She reached deep and smiled under her breath as she felt a long object wrapped in the fabric – she took it out and approached him – he wiped his hands in the white cloth, swallowing loudly at what was in his mouth.

She pulled the material off in a sweeping motion, and to their eyes appeared a long dagger specially made to her order – she had hunted many times with her cousin in Runestone and knew what proportions would be right for a man of his stature and height, making sure it would fit his hand well.

Her husband took her gift in his hands, completely surprised, gazing intently at the handle, which ended with the head of a dragon that had small sapphire stones inserted in the place of its eyes.

"– Vhagar –" He muttered, noticing in the beast's features a resemblance to his dragoness, which was no coincidence.

"– I drew her for the smith as best I could –" She confessed, and he looked at her, something in his gaze from which she felt a pleasant warmth in her heart.

He was touched.

"– it's a beautiful, thoughtful gift – of course that's what I received from my wife –" He said softly, taking her hand in his, lifting it to his lips, placing a delicate, tender kiss on her skin.

"– I also have a gift for you, ābrazȳrys – but I'm afraid it can't compare to yours –" He said, and she smiled with excitement and nodded.

"– wait for me –" He said and rose from his seat, moving towards the door, leaving the chamber.

What was this if he couldn't keep it in the room?

She waited for him for several long minutes, and when the door finally opened and he stood in the threshold, she noticed a small ball covered in fur in his arms, making a squeaky, high-pitched sounds.

It's a puppy, she thought in disbelief.

A hunting dog.

She got up from her seat and ran over to him, gushing with joy, reaching out her hands to him – her husband handed her the pup, who barked loudly and started wagging his tail – he had long, loping ears, his belly and paws were white, his back and sides brown and black.

"– I thought we should set off on a hunt together someday – when I saw him, I found you had the same eyes – I couldn't resist that pleading look –" He hummed, folding his hands behind his back, clearly pleased with her reaction.

"– hello, little one – ah, you're so sweet –" She mumbled as he licked her with his tiny pink tongue, squirming in her arms with excitement.

"– iksis ñuha ābrazȳrys biare? (is my wife happy?) –" He asked, and she threw him a joyful, bright look.

"– kessa (yes) – emā vēttan nyke olvie biare, valzȳrys (you have made me very happy, husband) –" She said softly, coming up to him – she stood up on her toes, placing a warm, wet kiss on his scarred cheek, from which a grimace of satisfaction spread across his face.

Her husband was to provide her little friend with an education so that, in fact, her dog could accompany them on hunts – the Prince burst out laughing when she said she would name her hound Daemon.

"– at last there will be a Daemon in my life whom I will be able to love –" She grunted, gently combing his hair after the bath – she longed to help him care for it herself and tie it at the back of his head, finding it a very private and intimate task, perfect for a wife.

She saw that, at the word love, he gave her a long, drawn-out look in the reflection of the mirror, but did not say a word.

She didn't care what he felt for her.

He was making her happy.

"Will you fly with me… to Harrenhal?" He asked suddenly in a voice strangely quiet and uncertain, as if for some reason he feared her refusal and rejection.

She threw him a quick, surprised glance, braiding the front strands of his snow-white hair with a black ribbon.

"Of course. My place is by your side. Always." She said without hesitation and placed her hand on his shoulder. She smiled warmly when his fingers caught hers, pressing her palm to his full, moist lips.

"– kirimvose, zaldrītsos (thank you, little dragon) –" He whispered, as if ashamed of his own words. "– kirimvose syt issare sȳz naejot nyke (thank you for being kind to me) –"

She blinked, feeling her heart squeeze at his words, so childlike, simple and sincere, guessing how difficult it had been for him to get such an embarrassing confession out.

"– iksā sȳz naejot nyke tolī, lēkia (you are kind to me too, big brother) –" She said softly, throwing her hands on his shoulders, leaning in so that her lips placed a gentle kiss on his temple.

When they were both ready, as planned, they set off on horseback to Vhagar's lair to soar into the sky on their dragons and fly over King's Landing – there was something beautiful in this act of unity, in the proof that from now on they were creating something common, together.

The meeting of the Small Council, which took place after their return, proceeded in a tense atmosphere – her husband made no sign of what humiliation he had suffered the day before, but his rage and desire for revenge was evident in his tense figure and sinister gaze.

His brother paid for rising from his bed with excruciating pain, so he was again given large quantities of the milk of the poppy.

"Now that the future of the Kingdom has been secured by marriage, we must take measures to take back Harrenhal from the Blacks. Daemon is gathering his forces there, ready to set out any day to his wife's aid. We must face him before the two armies are united." Said Otto in a voice full of calm and conviction about the rightness of his own words.

The Prince nodded.

"My wife and I will move at the head of our army in a few days to finally resolve this matter. I count on my sister and Dreamfyre, though not eager to fight, to defend the keep in our absence." He said coldly, and his grandfather nodded.

"I will see to it."

The rest of the day, which her husband spent on his duties, she spent in her chamber, playing on the floor with her new little pup – she knew she would have to return him to his guardian for the night to sleep with the other dogs, but now she could enjoy being with this sweet, innocent creature.

She liked how well thought out this gift was – not only did her husband show that he knew her nature, but he also gave her something to bring them closer together in the future, to give them another reason to spend time together.

This thought comforted her in the moments when her imagination showed her his face snuggled into the bosom of some pretty, mature, tender woman.

Did he love her?

Maybe he still does.

She blinked as the door to her chamber opened and her husband's sister, Queen Helaena, stepped inside – she rose quickly and bowed, surprised by this visit.

"I am sorry." She said, playing with the rings on her fingers. "For what happened to you last evening."

She nodded, accepting her words in her heart.

They had never spoken to each other before – after her son's death, it seemed to her that she had lived in a land of her own mind, unable to bear reality.

Her eyes lit up at the sight of her baby dog, who ran up to her on his short paws, squealing and whimpering, begging for attention. She smiled, looking up at her with an expression of childlike joy on her face.

"A puppy. Can I pet him?" She asked softly, and she nodded, throwing her a hearty, genuine smile.

"Of course, Your Grace." She said calmly, and seeing that the Queen sat on her knees on the ground, scratching Daemon's back, she did the same, taking the seat opposite her.

"My brother. He has changed." She said, however, not looking at her, but at her pup, busy combing his fur with her fingers.

"I don't follow, my Queen. Do you mean your lord-husband?" She asked in surprise.

"Aemond. Before he imprisoned you, he was on the path to his own destruction. There is a fire flowing through his veins that burns him from the inside everyday, however, he began to control himself for you – he doesn't want you to look at him like our mother does. With regret and resentment." She said calmly and gave her a long, dreamy look, then turned her gaze away again, as if distracted.

"Do you like to embroider? I like it a lot. Preferably all sorts of insects." She said lightly, suddenly changing the subject.

She blinked, feeling her heart pounding like a mad, unsure of how to behave, figuring she would simply follow the course of her thoughts.

"Unfortunately, I'm not talented in this aspect. Or maybe I didn't have a good teacher." She said honestly.

"I can teach you. It's not difficult if you master the technique properly." She replied, allowing Daemon to climb onto her thighs, content to recline comfortably in her lap.

"Very well." She replied without thinking, recognising that she should not refuse her.

Helaena did not look at her, but smiled broadly, as if her words made her happy.

"Your son will have your eyes."

She froze, looking at her in disbelief, wondering if she had heard correctly what she had said.

"Forgive me, Your Grace, but I do not understand." She muttered.

"I can see you holding him in your arms. The future king."

She swallowed hard, feeling the drop of a cold sweat run down her back.

"And my husband?"

"He is not beside you. All I hear is the sound of water."

She looked at her, feeling as if she froze, her heart stopped beating for a moment.

He is not beside you.

Why?

"What do you mean, Your Grace?" She mumbled in a trembling voice.

Helaena lifted her gaze to her, her face suddenly serious and fully focused – they both shuddered as the door to her chamber opened, and her lēkia stepped inside.

"Sister." He said cautiously, standing between them – Helaena, however, rose immediately without looking at them, her eyes widening again.

"– keep her close –" She said to him and walked away, leaving them with expressions of disbelief on their faces – her brother turned to follow her, concerned.

"What was that supposed to mean?" He asked when the door of her chamber closed behind her.

She shook her head, shrugging her shoulders.

"The death of her son has caused her to close herself off in her mind. She is lost." She muttered, herself not believing what she was saying, unable, however, to shift this burden onto him.

"What did she tell you?" He asked further, stepping closer to her, tense, his hands clenched into fists.

"She expressed her grief and sorrow for what her brother-husband did to us." She replied, thinking that telling him only part of the truth wasn't a lie after all.

All I hear is the sound of water.

"Never mind." He said, wanting to quickly change this uncomfortable topic.

"I have come to announce to you that summoning you to my chamber every day is tedious. I expect you to wait for me in my bed every evening." He said in an official tone, as if he had just presented her with some royal decree.

She smiled wearily and nodded, taking little Daemon's in her hands.

"Very well. I will take my friend back to his brothers and sisters and come to you." She said softly.

He hummed, pleased with her answer and left, leaving her alone.

She clenched her eyelids and burst into sobs as soon as the door to her chamber closed behind him.

He is not beside you.

All I hear is the sound of water.

So where will he be while she is caring for their child?

With his mistress in a hot bath?

She swallowed hard, looking down at her trembling hands, trying to calm herself, realising only now that Aegon's words had sunk into her heart like a thorn.

She preferred not to let him see her tears, so she cried until she calmed down – she recognised that prophecies and dreams, even if they contained a grain of truth, did not represent the full picture.

Surely there was something she could have done, she thought, trying to reassure herself, walking to his chamber in only her nightgown and a thin robe thrown over her shoulders.

Her husband was lying on his bed when she came in, holding a book on his thighs, which he was looking through curiously – he lifted his gaze to her when he heard her footsteps and hummed, his eye expressing gentle contentment.

"Come here." He murmured softly, drawing her to him by her hand when she was close enough, making her fall against his chest.

"– how is your little cunt? – did it rest properly today? –" He asked lightly, pulling the material of her nightgown up – he gently sunk his long fingers into her silky folds from the side of her buttocks, making her involuntarily smile with amusement.

"– yes – I am grateful to you for your understanding, husband –" She said softly, placing a warm, tender kiss on his cheek, while his other hand was stroking her back in lazy, slow motions.

"– mmm –" He said, spreading himself comfortably beside her as she lay on the soft bedding on her back, stroking his jaw with her knuckles.

He is not beside you.

She swallowed hard, feeling a squeeze in her throat, thinking that she cherished that face, those lips, those eyebrows, those cheekbones, that chin and nose.

"What are you thinking about?" He whispered, seeing that her thoughts had drifted far away.

She blinked, pressing her lips together, feeling warm tears begin to run down her cheeks one by one, his loud gasp told her he was surprised.

"– what's it? – look at me, ābrazȳrys – where are these tears coming from? – tell me –" He muttered with sincere worry, lifting her chin with his finger, as if he was afraid that something had happened that would make him suffer her rejection.

Could she have asked him about her?

Of course not.

He will be furious.

"I can't. It's a subject you certainly don't want to discuss with me or anyone else." She muttered wearily and heard him swallow hard, his hot breath enveloping her face.

He was silent for a long moment, as if hesitating, and then she heard him open his mouth.

"You are my wife. I allow you to ask me anything you wish. I know you will not deliberately offend me or cause me discomfort." He said slowly, his voice trembling slightly, betraying his anxiety.

She looked at him surprised, whooping with tears, meeting his concerned, sad gaze.

This was not what she had expected.

She licked her lower lip, dry with stress, wanting to find the right words, the right way to tell him what was bothering her and not discourage him at the same time.

"What Aegon said. Then. He was referring to a woman who was important to you. Who you trusted. Who you kept coming back to. I don't know what I expected, but hearing that you did the same things with her that you do with me hurt me. Maybe because you are my first. There was no one before you."

"And the servant boy?" He asked dryly, looking at her sternly, wrinkling his brow – although he looked as if he was frustrated, his fingers trailing down her neck and cheek softened his expression.

She blinked and shook her head, wondering what that had to do with anything.

"I was desperate. I wished for someone to make me feel good, to make me feel safe. After all, you know it – you were there. You gave it to me yourself." She whispered.

"And there you have your answer." He replied calmly.

They looked at each other in silence, just being and breathing.

You have your answer.

He was desperate.

He wanted to feel good.

To feel safe.

He had no one to turn to, no one to go to, so out of desperation he went back to the brothel, to the woman who gave him comfort, to forget, at least for a moment, what he was experiencing inside himself.

She nodded, accepting his words, and he sighed quietly, as if relieved, obviously afraid that she would try to continue the subject further.

His hand slid down to her warm cheek, wet with her tears, which he brushed away with his thumb. She felt a pleasant sensation in her heart as he leaned in, his forehead pressed against hers.

"– there's no point in dwelling on the past – not when there's a shared future ahead of us – yours and my fate – no one else's –" He whispered, as if he was telling her his secret, something he was ashamed of.

Yours and my fate.

No one else's.

Something in his words, in the way he said them, made her feel relieved. She smiled softly and he drew in a loud breath, looking at her for a moment, only to cup her face in his hands and sink his fleshy lips into hers in a hungry, aggressive kiss.

She moaned into his throat, clasping her fingers in his hair, teasing his mouth with hers with sweet sighs of delight, thinking of how much she adored his scent, his closeness, his touch.

"– hāedar –" He breathed out into her lips between the loud clicks of their saliva, as if he was saying the words of a prayer.

She let his hands tear off her nightgown, let his head lean down, let his lips clamp greedily on her puffy nipple, sucking on it with his loud grunt of pleasure, her fingers pressing his body against her breasts.

She sighed as his lips traveled higher, placing wet, sticky kisses on her collarbone, on the hollow of her neck, on her jaw.

"– I want you inside me –" She mumbled, and he broke his caress, throwing her a surprised look.

"– I exaggerated last night – I don't want to cause you pain –" He said uncertainly, stroking her hot cheek with his broad hand.

"– I want to feel you – just be gentle –" She said, throwing her arms around his neck, spreading her thighs in front of him without shame.

She was his wife after all.

No more encouragement was needed – his hands immediately slid down to his breeches, untying them, after a moment releasing his heavy, swollen erection that hit her lower abdomen.

"– come here – there you go – shhh – easy –" He whispered as he guided his long manhood to her slit and with a slow, lazy thrust he opened her on the head of his cock, pressing his forehead against hers, looking down at what he was doing to her.

"– sadly, this poor cunt won't get any rest tonight – mmm –" He gasped out as he gently slid all the way into her – she moaned, feeling her aching walls pulsing around his hard length with desire, thinking that all she wanted was to be one with him.

Don't go where I can't follow you, she thought, looking at his face, his misty gaze full of hot lust, feeling the soft, steady thrusts of his hips as he rooted into her with the quiet clicks of her wetness.

"– does it hurt? – I'll stop, just say a word –" He whispered, stroking her cheeks, her shoulders, the sides of her waist and her buttocks, as if he couldn't decide what was more dear to him.

He leaned over her as she shook her head and kissed her in a way from which her heart fluttered in her chest like a bird – his moist lips brushed hers in a wonderfully tender, sweet caress, his thumb stroking her silky cheek, holding her close.

She closed her eyes, concentrating only on that, on his scent, his loud, warm breath, his sighs, the fleshy structure of his full lips that melded with hers again and again, his hard, pulsing erection stretching her slick core.

"– my lips never touched hers – never caressed her down there –" He whispered into her mouth, making hot shiver run down her spine, her cunt giving his length one, greedy squeeze – they both groaned into each other's throats as he shyly quickened his pace, thrusting into her more confidently, hitting the sweet spot deep inside her fleshy walls.

"– then, in the library – it was my first kiss –" He breathed out with difficulty, slamming into her harder and harder, his hips bumping against her buttocks with loud slaps.

She sobbed into his throat as his full lips sunk into hers again, the loud clicking of their saliva all around them in the utter chaos of their tongues and teeth.

Then, in the library.

It was my first kiss.

"– don't leave me –" She mewled into his mouth, feeling the wonderful tension building in her lower abdomen, a pleasant, tickling sensation running through her nipples, her fingertips and her throbbing, leaking womanhood.

"– never –" He breathed out, pressing his lips against hers in a more violent, passionate kisses, matching his thrusts, rough and deep, evidence of his pure lust – his hand ran lower, between her thighs, his thumb finding her little bud, all swollen with desire, brushing it with circular strokes.

"– I love you –" She cried out, feeling that her peak was approaching, that she was about to experience the strongest fulfilment of her life – she heard him sigh in surprise, his cock throbbing hard inside her in response, pounding into her with sticky clicks of her moisture.

"– I love you – I love you – I love you –" She sobbed loudly, feeling tears run down the sides of her face, clasping her fingers over his soft buttocks – his gaze was hot and dark as he looked down at her, his mouth wide open in disbelief, his hips slamming into her as hard as if he had lost his mind.

"– me – me too – f-fuck, I love you too – ah –" He exhaled and gasped, feeling her warm cunt begin to clench on his cock in delight, sucking it inside, her sweet whimpers of pleasure making him just come with a loud grunt, all welted and sweaty just as she was.

"– good gods, hāedar –" He breathed out and fell on top of her, as if he didn't believe what they had just done and said.

And yet.

Her walls were sore all over, but the feeling of fulfilment she experienced now, when he was deep inside her, when she smelled his scent, when she heard his heavy breath, was irreplaceable.

He gave her neck a little, tentative kiss, panting hard along with her, his manhood throbbing softly deep inside her, filling her with the remains of his seed.

He wanted to slide out of her, but her hands clamped down on his buttocks.

"– no – not yet –" She mumbled, and he sighed as if relieved, with a gentle thrust sinking deep into her body again.

They lay like this in silence, just embracing each other and breathing, taking comfort from their closeness, from the warmth of their bodies.

She ran her fingers through his hair, stroking his back with her other hand and closed her eyes, wanting to remember this, this moment, them, together, happy.

I will always be by your side, she thought.

I will save you.

_____

Author's note: The dog she got from her husband is a Beagle. Aemond saw the servants carrying some puppies walking down the courtyard and, looking at one, thought "gods, he looks at me like my betrothed". He thought that she probably felt lonely in the Red Keep and perhaps she would be happy to have a companion.

[sarahisslytherin]

duty and honor.

cregan stark x tyrell!reader

summary: it has been decided. you are to wed the young lord stark. you know little of him or the north but will do your duty. this, however, does not release you from your worry of how the union will go or how you will settle into your role as lady of winterfell. luckily, cregan takes it upon himself to make you feel at home.

contains: fluff, people rooting for a bedding ceremony.

a/n: i am so in love with this man i need to be restrained.

word count: 2k

The carriage rocked on the road to Winterfell, your ocean blue gown ruffling as it did. You tried your best to ignore the wild beat of your heart in your chest, tried focusing instead on the growing pines that passed your window with increasing speed. Your mother sat at your side, a stoic presence that soothed you somehow. You took her hand in your own, and when she looked at you you didn’t have it in you to mask your utter fear. 

“You will be alright, child.” she sighed, bringing that same hand up to cup your cheek. “Lord Stark is a good man. I know you will be far from all that you know, but surely you will grow to love your new home as well as your betrothed.”

When you finally came to a halt outside its gates, you felt your heart drop to your stomach. You clutched your mother’s hand like a frightened babe when they drew open. The courtyard was full of expectant faces you knew you would eventually commit to memory. The townspeople were out and about, young rosy-cheeked girls squealing with delight as they spotted your carriage. Their soon-to-be Lady was within it, and you could only hope when the time came that you would not fall short of their expectations. They watched keenly as you stopped before them one final time, and you prepared to be devoured by hungry, prying eyes. You tugged on the fur lining of your cloak as your mother stepped down from the carriage. You quickly followed suit.

Indeed, you could feel their glares cutting clean through you. You had known enough ladies and lords to know they were searching for faults and virtues to remark upon as soon as you were out of earshot, but there were so many faces you could not focus on a single one. 

Instead your gaze swiftly fell upon the mountain of a man that was the young Lord Stark. His chestnut locks fell in such a manner that they delicately framed a rather rugged face, on which a scowl seemed to be permanently etched. But this was to be expected. It was common knowledge that smiles were rare amongst Northmen. Though winter was still months away, he was already cloaked head to toe in furs, an uncommonly large sword strapped across the broad expanse of his back. 

“Lady Y/N, welcome to Winterfell.” he rasped, his voice quite gravelly and masculine for so young a man. You offered him a small curtsy in return, but couldn’t quite muster up the agreeable smile your mother had asked you to perfect on the way here. You tried your best not to gawk as you took in the ancient castle, trailing behind Lord Stark as he strode through Winterfell’s stony halls. The biting cold of the north left your bones as you approached the hearth in the Great Hall. 

You listened as your mother exchanged pleasantries with members of Lord Stark’s court, though your eyes did not leave the dancing flames and glowing embers.

“You’re a long way from Highgarden.” he said as he came to stand beside you. His accent was harsh, the vowels flat and words clipped, but you would be lying if you said you didn’t find it somewhat pleasant to your ear.

You turned to regard him. Gods, he was beautiful. The fire cast his features in a golden hue, the color returning to his cheeks. He was a sight to behold, powerful and perhaps even fearsome, but in this moment so soft. You wondered what your future with him would look like. Would he take a liking to you? Would he hate you? When you eventually gave him children, would they take after their mother or father? Would it be a life worth living?

“Yes, my Lord.” you sighed, rubbing your hands up and down your arms. “A long way indeed.”

The muted ivory of your gown made you appear one with the snow of the Godswood. Your hair was unbound, save for the intricate braiding around the crown of your head. Only the moon’s and torches’ light showed you the way to the weirwood tree. Your father swiftly came to your side, looping your arm in his. He offered you a gentle caress along your icy cheek, a solemn look about his face as if watching a spring rose being sacrificed to the unforgiving cold of winter. Wordlessly, you began to walk.

Despite the North’s fame for brutal winters and even more brutal people, you couldn’t help but marvel at the quiet beauty of the Godswood. So still was it, that you could have sworn you felt its ancientness in your bones, could feel every ring of age around each tree stump. Snowflakes danced on their way down, coming to land upon strands of your hair. It was then that you saw him before the weirwood, his lips drawn into a thin line. He was covered in dark furs and a cloak, his hands clasped behind his straightened back. 

“Who comes before the Old Gods this night?” The words were spoken by a family ward. 

“Y/N of the House Tyrell.” your father replied. “She comes here to be wed. A woman grown, trueborn and noble. She comes to beg the blessings of the Gods. Who comes to claim her?” 

You watched as Lord Stark approached, towering over you. You hoped you would grow accustomed to it, to him. You held your breath when he spoke. “Cregan of the House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North.” 

You dared to look up, to meet his gaze. You found nothing but gentleness in them. “Who gives her?” Your father spoke his name. And now the ward asked you the question. 

“Lady Y/N, will you take this man?”

You could feel the overbearing weight of watchful eyes, of held breaths and keen ears. But Cregan’s eyes hadn’t left yours, determined to hold your gaze. You could have sworn a flicker of joy shone in them when you gasped out. 

“I take this man.”

Cregan offered you a shy curl of his lips, then took your hands in his. You noted that they were far smaller in comparison to his weathered hands as he led you to the trunk of the weirwood tree. Its face provided you with some strange comfort. Perhaps the gods would heed your prayers. Perhaps they were watching over you as you both knelt before the trunk. Silence fell upon the Godswood as the wedding party prayed. No sooner had the moment passed that you and your now husband rose to your feet. Cregan’s large hands reached around you to gingerly remove your cloak, a golden Tyrell rose embroidered upon it by your mother. 

You shivered as the cold crept into your body, but were swiftly covered once again, this time in a Stark cloak, the wolf sigil stitched boldly enough for all to see. And just like that, it was done.

It was the first time you had seen him smile, truly smile, since you had arrived at Winterfell. From where you sat at his side on the dais, the entirety of the Great Hall stretched out before you. Jovial music filled the hall, and you watched the merry faces of Cregan’s men as they helped themselves to the wedding feast. Their chatter echoed on the stone walls, and for the first time since you had left Highgarden, you felt somewhat at home.

“Has Winterfell begun to grow on you, wife?” Cregan’s husky voice came from your left. When you turned to meet him he was wearing a boyish smirk. He was playing. You didn’t suspect the Wolf of the North had it in him.

“Well, it may be a while longer before that happens.” you sheepishly admitted, struggling to hold his intense gaze. “But I know I will come to love it.”

“Aye.” he said. “I know it will never be your true home, but I promise you I will do all in my power to make it the next best thing.” He placed his large hand atop your own, taking your palm and squeezing it gingerly. You were thankful for the gesture, and couldn’t ignore the flush of your cheeks that resulted from it.

“You’re timid.” he observed, only causing you further embarrassment. “It’s quite charming.”

“You may very well be the only person who finds it to be so. Even back home my soft temper has been known to irritate others. Most times people can barely hear me when I speak. I find it easier to keep to myself and observe.” you confessed. “I truly must grow a thicker skin if I am to survive amongst the wolves.”

“You won’t survive.” Cregan stated matter of factly. You whipped your head toward him with wide eyes at that, not prepared for what he would say next. “You will thrive.”

You felt your muscles loosen up once again, offering him an incredulous laugh.

“I am perfectly serious, my Lady.” he went on. “You will rule the North at my side.”

“I hardly think I am equipped to rule such an – unruly people, my Lord.” you tried to mask the nervous tremble of your hand as you brought your wine to your lips.

“Cregan.” he rasped. “Call me Cregan.” You nodded, eyes crinkling above a smile. He leaned in, as if he were about to tell you a most precious secret. “Sometimes all a beast truly needs is the touch of a gentle hand.” 

You backed away to meet his eyes. They held nothing but truth in them. Nothing but honor. But your moment was soon ended by the clamor of the wedding party. The men began to holler, whooping and howling in unison. “Time for the bedding!”

You had anticipated this, and you now braced yourself for the unpleasant experience of being hauled to a bed with Cregan. You had always known your first time would be like this, and though you loathed the idea, you could not alter tradition. It was a surprise to you when Cregan rose from his chair, planting his large hands on the dinner table before he spoke.

“I am sorry to disappoint you, but there will be no bedding ceremony tonight.” he bellowed out through the hall in a voice so commanding it was an effort not to shrink in his presence. “And I won’t hear any complaints about it. It’s too lovely an occasion to taint with a brawl.”

The men did their best to mask their disappointed groans as they returned to their dinner. You weren’t quite sure what had prompted Cregan to make such a decision. Did he not like you the way you had hoped? Perhaps he thought you fit to rule by him, to be a figurehead, but not someone he could ever desire in earnest. He must have read the emotions as they crossed your face, because he quickly took his seat beside you again. 

“Are you well, my Lady?” he asked. You merely nodded in response. He gently took your chin between his thumb and forefinger, forcing your gaze towards his. “When you wish it to happen it will be just the two of us, husband and wife. No prying eyes or ears.”

Warmth bloomed in your heart at the words. It was as if he had quieted the growing storm in your mind with only the touch of a hand. A gentle hand.

“You are a man of honor, Cregan.” you said resolutely.

He only smiled in return as he brought you in closer, finally pressing his lips to yours. The touch sent sparks down your spine. It was in that moment you knew that spark would soon fan into a flame a thousand northern winds could not snuff out.

tagging: @velvetcloxds @oweninadaydream @spxllcxstxr @lovemesomevesey @shemisseshome @themissgreen24-blog @siriusement @kingdomzeldaquest @gayfordabae @slayis4ever

[evergreen-endo]

CHERRY WAVES — J. TOGAME

"a gem cannot be polished without friction, nor a man perfected without trials."

cw: 18+ mdni. f! reader. porn without plot. not exactly dom/sub dynamics but reader does take control. reader is a bit of a cherry picker too, lol. a/n: pussy job with virgin togame, written with my clit. not a typical super subby, nervous virgin depiction; he’s pretty shameless! :P wc: 1.8k.

You’re already wet from the way Togame’s been slowly licking into your mouth for a painstakingly long time. He thought he had the upper hand pulling a soft moan from you when you first arrived; but the way you flipped the switch on him has him weak in the knees. 

He wasn’t expecting it from you— the way you push him back onto the bed to crawl on top of him, sitting right on top of his bulge. The barely-there grind of your hips as you lean down to kiss him again, soft lips trailing along his jawline and onto his neck. His pulse makes itself apparent, softly thrumming against your mouth as you smile at the thought of having such an effect on him.

Togame just can’t keep his hands off you, large palms trailing over your back and thighs, up to your shoulders and the base of your neck. He squeezes at your waist when your hips push harder into his, a needy little moan escaping him before he bites his own lip. The way you stare down at him, narrowed eyes searching his own– he knows you know by now. But he hopes and prays you won’t say anyth–

“Are you a virgin, Jo?”

He wishes it wasn’t so obvious, but his cock twitches as if to answer your question. He can’t bring himself to be embarrassed, either; not when your eyes light up like that. So he shrugs, and tilts his head, leaning back into the pillows, “Yeah. Gonna do something about it?”

You bite your lip to conceal a squeal before dipping down to nip at his earlobe. His sharp exhale tells you he likes that— though you don’t really need a reminder with the wet patch growing between the two of you. It makes you giggle, “I might.”

A valued treasure gleams beneath you, jewel toned eyes sparkling with want. He’s a precious gem all in your care, rare and rough around the edges. It’s charming when his breath hitches at the feel of your fingertips teasing his skin under the hem of his sweater. You move your mouth against his again to distract him, unaware of how his head spins at the overwhelm. Your palm picks up the soft ridges of his abdomen, the outer edges of a happy trail brushing against your thumb, and he shivers at your touch. Soft smacks of a slow kiss echo in your ears, interrupted by a huff and a barely contained groan as your fingers graze over his nipple. 

It’s so cute how hard he tries to regain focus, craning his neck up to make his mouth meet yours again. You let him back in, leisurely tracing your tongue along his before tweaking at his nipple, and tapping when you feel it perk up beneath your touch. His back arches, another sharp inhale, and a keen from the back of his throat. Pulling away, you catch a glimpse of his eyes rolling forward to meet yours. His expression is stony— cold and calloused despite the flush on his neck and heave of his chest. 

You wonder if you’re pushing your luck when you smile and lean forward again, inadvertently rolling your hips against him. His chin tilts up, expecting a kiss, but your thumb traces his lip instead, picking up traces of your mixed saliva. 

“Feeling needy, Jo?”

He doesn’t think he needs to answer that, but he does, with a tone much breathier than he intended, “Whose fault is that?”

“I didn’t make any promises, you know.” Another roll of your hips. It’s just too fun to watch him twitch in an effort to hide the effect you’re having on him.

“You don’t have to,” he assures, even as you can feel him throbbing between your legs. “This is…this is enough. Feels good.”

“Oh, is it?” You tease, easing up the hem of his sweatshirt until you can see the planes of his chest. You coo at the moles and freckles scattered about, pressing kisses to the ones within reach from where you sit. He watches you with lidded eyes and a slack jaw, a look you’re all too familiar with. Togame is too horny to think. Your lips latch around his nipple to make matters worse for him. A breathy groan falls from his lips, and his hips buck up in quick bursts before he steadies himself. You’re so charmed by his method of distracting himself, too— the way his large palm comes up to the crown of your head, petting you softly.

Your mouth trails along the expanse of his chest, flicking your tongue across his other nipple and using your free hand to tug at the fabric getting in your way. You murmur against his skin, “So you don’t want this off?” 

He chuckles, nervously, “I– I never said that–”

And you’re tugging it over his head in an instant. He lifts his arms so easy for you. You take your time taking him in; his fluffy black locks and his biceps that flex, straining not to rip your shirt off you as well. You don’t miss the way his fingertips twitch, though, so you take it upon yourself to fling your flimsy top across the room. 

Bringing his hand up to palm at your chest, you can’t help but tease again, “You can touch me too. Just, y’know, try not to cum in your pants.”

He tsks, “Hey, hey, c’mon. Easy now. Tch. Treating me like I’m some kind of…”

You tilt your head with a smarmy smile as he squeezes, losing his train of thought. “...Virgin? Who’s never touched tits before?”

He flushes, but he keeps his composure, “Never ones as pretty as these, no.” He brings his free hand up to palm at the other, squishing them together gently. As an afterthought, he adds, “And soft.”

You watch him with sparkling eyes, humming in consideration. “Maybe next time I’ll let you fuck them. For now, though,” you tug at the loose elastic waistband around his hips, “Let’s get these off too, yeah?”

Togame is frozen in place, staring through you, still processing the first words that came out of your mouth. His hips are nearly dead weight when you try to pull his pants off. You make the switch from saccharine to stern to get his attention, “Jo. Hips up. Come on.” 

He blinks, lifting his hips and helping you strip him down. All that’s left is your bottoms, which get discarded once you stand after trailing kisses down his thighs and calves. When you begin your ascension back to his lap, you tap curiously at the precum leaking from the tip of his dick. Togame feels dizzy being the object of your worship, and a playtoy all at once.

“So,” you start, tapping at his cock to watch it bob back up, “I’m feeling a little selfish.”

He pants, another droplet of pre stretching down onto his tummy, “You don’t say?”

It makes you giggle. “I’ll still make you feel good. I just don’t think you’re ready to be inside me. You need some polishing.” He has no idea what that means, and not enough available brain capacity to ask. Especially not when you dip your head down to lap up his mess, loose hairs tickling his abdomen. He shivers; you’ve got him at your mercy. 

His voice is strained when he speaks, trying his damndest to keep his composure, “I’m, uh, down for whatever. But hey— I don’t think I can wait much longer.” He tries to distract from the desperation in his voice with a chuckle, but it comes out forced, too.

You settle on top of him at that, listening to his breath stutter at the feeling of your wet warmth sliding ever so slightly against him. “Perfect. Neither can I.”

It’s not long after that the room is filled with wet squelches and heavy panting. He's hissing and muffling his grunts in your neck, curling his arm around your waist and pressing your sweat streaked bodies closer together. The rhythm of your rolling hips against him has him blabbering, “Hah– you’re so good, baby, fuck.” The praise sends shivers up your spine, and you whine as you pull yourself up onto your forearms to see his face. The sight has you clenching against him– his gorgeous eyes rolled back into his skull and bottom lip pressed between his teeth. When he feels your breath against his cheek, he sets his lidded, blurry gaze on you. He has to fight back a grunt under the intensity of your stare, but can’t bring himself to close his eyes. 

You manage to pant out, “You look good like this.”

He lets out a strained chuckle, “Look who’s talkin’.”

It’s all messy. Saliva smeared along both your cheeks, your slick coating his cock, steady streams of precum puddling in his happy trail. It’s when he struggles to kiss back that you know he’s close, hand tightening in your hair as he pants, breaths becoming more and more drawn out with every slick glide of your pussy against him. His eyes flutter closed, brows furrowing inwards as his jaw drops to let a loud groan escape. 

You talk him through it, low in his ear, “That’s it, Jo. Feels so good, I know. Gimme. Wanna see you.”

“Fuck.” He coats your own stomach and his with streams of pearly white, trembling and moaning wantonly. You even glide over his tip just to drag it along his cock, sticky between your folds.

Togame lays beneath you boneless and twitching, gasping for breath, sunken into the pillows. It’s a sweet sight; one you worked hard to see. You relish in it for a bit before speaking up, running a hand through his hair, “Doing okay?”

He cracks an eye open, nodding, mouth agape. If you squint, there’s a slight curve to the corners of his lips.

“Don’t you think I deserve a reward? For making you feel so good?” You know your words are going in one ear and out the other. He nods again, melting into your touch. It hurts your heart a bit to disturb his peace, but the ache in your core betrays you.

He jolts when you roll your hips again, eyes wide. “W–wait! Need a sec–”

“Shhh, shh. You’re okay.” You bite your lip as you drag your clit against his once again hardening cock, “Sit pretty and I’ll cum fast.” 

He’s a mess, twitching and whining from the overstimulation. Not a coherent word leaves his lips and all he sees is the back of his eyelids. It makes you smile— this is how you break him; smoothing down those rough edges to get him ready for the real thing.

A high pitched cry dies in his throat before he goes limp, and he cums again, rivulets of white streaming slow out of his tip. 

Sigh. He’s got a long way to go.

[beware-of-pity]

You believe me like a god (I destroy you like I am) - VII

Masterlist / AO3 link / Previous six - Next

Jacaerys Velaryon x reader

TW: Self-hatred/Implied Self Harm. Complicated family relations. The reader is a Targtower.

Chapter Seven: Trust in me, I will rise (Through the fire, in the sky)

. 𓆰♕𓆪

Jacaerys had been ignoring you. Of that, you were sure.

The last you had seen him in many days had been when he’d caught a glimpse of your conduct with Reynford. You could only imagine what he must have thought the ordeal to be.  He’d watched you gather your skirts and escort yourself out of the throne room, unable to bear the sight of his mild indifference, refusing to meet your gaze after that tense exchange you’d shared.  Your distress had made you unaware of just how much his eyes were burning holes into you with an intensity so unacquainted by a man whom a woman would share but a mere friendship with. 

His chest constricted at the sight of your back facing him. His whole body tensed, each muscle ripe with anxiousness, each nerve tingling and screaming for him to follow you as his mind, ever the voice of reason, told him to keep his composure in place at the sight of the many eyes cast on him — to grab your arm, urge you in his arms, demand an answer. But his feet were rooted in one spot as if chained by iron fetters.

The desire to call out your name, to beg you to stay, burned alive on his lips like molten fire, but he swallowed whatever want and need his heart ignited with, his pride refusing to give in.

You didn't see him that night; he did not join you for supper as he would, which didn’t make the weight of your conversation with Lord Reynford any lighter on your soul. Nor did he come the night after, the one after that or the one following. 

It seemed like he was purposely avoiding you, and for your own sake, you did not wish to cross your path with his. You did not know if you could face whatever confrontation you would get from him if he wished to finally speak to you. 

Spending the days keeping to yourself was something you were all too good at. The familiarity of loneliness, ever a willing companion to you and your thoughts, filled the emptiness that Jacaerys’ absence brought. Weeks passed by, and the routine of isolation settled in like an old friend, so familiar and willingly welcomed. 

Whenever you went for a walk, the halls felt emptier - or maybe the silence was just louder as your steps rebounded around the stony walls, the rustle of your skirts lingering like leaves swept away to make space for a new season.

Jacaerys, your shadow, had been nowhere and everywhere all at once. His absence was a constant weight, an ever-present reminder of something missing. But you could feel it, sense it, almost touch his presence trailing after you when your back was turned in his direction. You could spy him with the end of your eye, trailing after you, following you, but never approaching, keeping his distance. He was ever the trail haunting your steps, always nearby, like a weight on your shoulders. You wished he would approach you, but you knew he would not do such a thing. 

The pride of men, fickle and always bigger than their body can handle, bargain, swallow down. 

It hurt to admit that you yearned for him, to have him back…in your life, your thoughts, in your days and your nights. 

‘Come back to me, please.’ Tears as hot and infinite as the mellow nights cascaded your cheeks, framing them with the trail left behind, so cold and dark, if not for the glow of the candle to keep you company. 

Words only in thoughts and never in body, as you howled them in your mind not as a woman sane of her mind but as a beast, a wretched, savage animal of yearning, asking for a taste, for one last meal. 

“If I’ve hurt you, hurt me back! Hit me, scream at me! But do not ignore me; I cannot bear it! Anything but your indifference. Be with me always. If you do not wish to speak, then you won’t. Hold me in your arms, and then there’ll be no need for words. Caress me. Comfort me, and I will never ask for anything else. Haunt me! My thoughts, my sleep, my dreams. Take any form! Drive me mad! Only do not leave me in this abyss empty of your presence. Of your love, of your affection!”

But only silence stood the test of time to respond to your pleas. Abandoned in body, the cold of the room, of the sheets of your bed picked at your soft skin like a cruel reminder of the loneliness surrounding you. You lay there, tears streaming down your face. Your body ached for his touch, his presence. Your mind was like a storm, swirling with thoughts and feelings that you couldn't control, that you could not allow yourself to feel, that you should not allow your heart to clench for.

For his warm presence, for his reassuring words. For the way, his mere presence seemed to bring comfort and security, like a strong stone wall. The time you two spent together was like a soothing balm to your itching soul, and without thinking, without noticing, without meaning for it to, he made you happy.  A happiness you buried along the remnants of your past self, the twitching butterflies it brought with itself and the buzzing coming alive in the depths of the crevices which made your body — the same as the one he ignited in you. 

You had grown so accustomed to the feeling, yet you were so unaware of it. It had become a part of you, and without it, you realised the loss of the comfort you wished to never part from. You had long forgotten being comfortable with anything at all, and yet Jacaerys subtly, quietly, and unknowingly brought it out in you—so suddenly, so unwarrantedly, and oh so gently.

His absence felt like a phantom limb. Every conversation seemed dull, every moment less colourful, and the days grew gloomy as your spirits dimmed and the season changed. 

You couldn't turn a blind eye to the feeling of emptiness, not when it swallowed you whole. His character, so gentlemanly for a boy of twenty years of age, so modest and mature. His attention, even to the little things others might turn an eye to, when he could never turn his eye from you, taking you in each time as if he was seeing you for the first in many. His jokes, his charisma, and his demeanour made for a perfect and worthy heir for the iron throne, and you couldn’t be happier that one day he would be the one you would bow to as King.  You could not think of a more perfect fit to be a leader of men, with a just head on his shoulder and a mind as advanced as his. Your brothers had always looked the part they were raised to fit, arrogant and envious beings by nature, except Daeron, who, growing amidst the gentile of the Reach, was southward in character and the fancies of many girls. 

Boyish but with an elegance seldom worn by man. Intelligent, with a nick for excelling at anything to which he put his mind. A great knight and a skilled strategist, it was thanks to him that Rhaenyra was able to gain the upper hand in the war and gain King’s Landing, for you had heard much later, when the castle’s siege had ended, that it was him that had planned for the plot that led to the fall of King’s Landing alongside his grandsire. 

You knew of his exploits and his courage, but they paled in comparison to who he truly was, to the version of him you knew so intimately. He was kind and gentle, with a maturity that was surprising for his age.

One could not ask for a more reliable and capable heir to the throne.  But above all, he was a good man. And you loved him.

Love. 

Oh, love. How had you become so foolish as to dream of things like love? Reynford was right. Who could you fool?   Love is a fool's game, you thought, a dangerous game to play. You had been hurt enough, why must you destroy yourself?

Your hand is cold,  like the waves violently crushing upon the shore through a storm, Mine burns like fire,  Molten and as dangerous as dragon fire, How blind are you?

You wanted to scream, to shout, to shake him. How could he not see it, how could he be so blind to your pain, your love, your suffering?!

Your heart is like the moon, Silent, distant, and cold. Mine is like the sun, Burning, passionate, and intense.

The days seemed longer, and the nights infinite. The thought of him consumed you - his warm smile, the comforting weight of his gaze, the way he would reach to take your hand, hold it into his, the warmth of his skin engulfing you whole, warming you from within.

You are like the sea, Constant, predictable, and steady. I am like a storm. Unsettling, unpredictable, and destructive. Can you not feel it? The way my heart beats like thunder for you.

To the surprise of no one, you quickly fell back into your old habits. You had spiralled again, but then again, had you ever recovered enough to consider yourself cured? Or was it just a momentary distraction? When Jacaerys was around, it looked as if everything would be well. Beside him, you felt you could transcend between the wordly and otherwordly.

But not with your vices. 

They suited you like a well-fitting glove, and it is well-known that old habits die hard.  Refusing meals, picking at your nails, going mute for long periods, and spending days locked in your rooms were natural to you, like a second nature you regressed into. 

You are like a clear night sky, Calm, peaceful, and tranquil. I am like a raging wildfire. Passionate, consuming, and consuming. Can you not sense it? The way my soul aches for you.

No one took notice of your absence; was it by simple lack of care or the prolonged antecedence you made a habit of - the former the likely. But the old habits of isolation and neglect came back like they never left, leaving you weak and drained of energy. Your appearance came to show your detriment: more brittle in body with dark circles adorning your eyes as a result of your severe lack of sleep.

You had worked so hard to restore what little left there had been of what joined you two. Dreaming of days when the war never happened, where he never left to live on Dragonstone, when times were easier, and you two were never apart. I’d been difficult; anyone would have thought so, after all, the loss you two shared was not easy to overcome. He’d lost his brother, his grandmother and the man he viewed as a father, not to mention two before him too. And you, you had lost your whole family. 

Sometimes, you believed that grief could not be overcome. It’s like the ocean. It’s quiet, unattended, calm as still water. And then, it crushes you; it comes down like a great wave and all of a sudden, you’re back in that room, and you’re watching your sister throw herself from her window, your brother drinks himself to death, and your mother dies quietly in a pool of her own sweet and delusions. You’re brought news of your brothers’ demise in battle, and you’re all alone, having to take care of your niece who has forgotten her mother, your beloved sister, and who sees you as her own.  The world you knew, burned to ash by the fire of dragons, one where he walked beside you — that inconceivable, unbelievable, long-gone world where you two could sit under the shade of the weird wood tree with his head on your lap as you read to him the histories of the books he loved so much. You always read because he always asked. He loved your voice that much. The world where you flew the confines of the sky on your dragons, side by side, racing the other from Dragonstone and back to see who would reach it the fastest. 

You teased his lots back then, making jabs at how you’ll get there first because of Silverwing’s mightiness in comparison to Vermax’s lithe size. 

Not so little the green-scaled dragon anymore. Still nowhere near the size of your dear old girl.

With every visit since he moved to Dragonstone, he never failed to show everyone the difference between him and your brother. He was courteous, despite the lack of warmth, always treating the members of your family, who in due never gave back. 

But you’d always been a different matter. As his mother busied herself with the matters that had long gone unattended by her lack of presence in King’s Landing, Jacaerys spent long hours in your company, enthralling you with tales of his days spent in your family’s ancestral seat and with each visit, he never failed to bring you forth gifts.

Pearls harboured in the ship racks of Driftmark and laboured by the hands of his grandsire’s servants, twisted and elaborated in necklaces, earrings, rings and hair ornaments.   Books for you to read to him, always handed with that begging glint in his eye whenever you opened the box they’d be carefully placed in. Poems were your favourites, especially when read by his lips —  he dined with you, hawked with you, which you were far less capable than a squire in, sailed with you, entertained you in hushed whispers your ears were blessed with by making mock of the animosity between your families and your brothers’ fury at his attention for you. 

You are like the day, Warm, reassuring, and bright. I am like the night, Dark, lonely, and mysterious. How can you resist me? When my love for you is as vast as the sky.

Upon one of the last visits his family paid yours with, he’d gifted you your most prized possession. The seven-pointed star necklace you seldom forget to wear. His mother had always been open to remind him that while at home, he was free to worship the gods he so wished to pay his prayers to, but every Targaryen, if willing to serve the Seven Kingdoms, must answer to their gods.  You’d always been a tenant for him to look for when thinking of the seven-faced god. No lesson, no prayer, no visit to the sept, could ignite in him religion the way you did. Myth personified, that’s what he’d turned you into — but how could he not when you looked so sacrilegious before the gods? The maiden herself, purity, love and beauty personified. He’d woven since a young age that the moment he could compete in a tourney, he’d make you his queen of love and beauty. 

It was clear he was fond of you, and yet he was always the gentleman. Always so well-behaved and polite, especially knowing how much your family disliked him.

His thoughtful gesture had touched your heart, and you’d worn that necklace ever since, feeling its comforting weight around your neck. It was a constant reminder of the bond you shared, of the love you knew the gods could not approve. But he was too good, too chivalrous and honourable, to ever consider breaking his vows or making you a sinner, he could never stain your honour with his…bastardy. And so you watched him continue his affection for you, day after day, grew more and more distant.

Until it was long gone.  The war had destroyed it all. Broken the bond you had forged together, leaving you lost and alone without him. The memory of the past was both a comfort and a heartbreak as you reminisced about what could never be yours again. 

You are like the earth, Safe, nurturing, and grounded. I am like the wind, Free, untamed, and unyielding. How can you forget me? When my body aches for nothing except the touch of your skin.

Afraid of the hit your condition had taken, your maids grew concerned that you would collapse any minute. They arranged for one of them to keep by your side, a constant, a step or two behind yours.  Alone, in a castle as big as this, everybody seemed to ignore you and your plight, but alas, your maids and lady servants were there to keep you the company you so lacked. 

In your wavering emotional state, you noticed that there was a particular girl who fretted over you more than the others ever did. She seemed to take your troubles as her own, wanting to make it all better for you. She pushed the hardest for you to eat your meals, tucked you always in the warmest sheets, and brought you that sweet milk cream you were fond of.  But you had never told her your fondness for the dessert… 

She is small, maybe young or just short for her age. You tower over her, even if slightly. Slim, pretty, with sandy hair. Maybe Dornish? If so, a stony for sure. Little fingers, some scrawny and some scarred, and a nibbled pinky. 

You’d asked her name one evening as she placed the tray with your meal on the table. It caught her off guard, but she had let out a somewhat hearable ‘Nyssella’ in response.

Why do you close your eyes to me? When the sight of your gaze leaves me weak.

How much must you have aged in just three years? No longer a girl, you were but a flowered woman. But perhaps you had never been a girl; your girlhood’s never been yours.  The moment it bloomed, flowered, flourished, it was wrung out like death out of you by people willing to use it for their own, like your mother and grandsire. You had been anything but a girl, never receiving the privilege of being one.  Always a woman, sacrificial, dutiful, mindful, understanding. The one your mother relied on the most because you understood, you always did. But you didn’t, you never understood, you just did as you were told to do; you did the right thing. You never questioned, you never inquired, spoke up or rebutted; you just listened and followed, and you were loved and appreciated for it. 

And you loved to be loved. Oh, yes, you did. 

And they took. And they took. And they took. 

You lived for the attention of others, for their approval and appreciation. But how much of yourself had you lost in your quest for their love? How much of who you were had been sacrificed in the name of duty?

Helaena. Helaena she loved most, but she was not perfect. She was not you. 

You and Helena, raised as Targaryen princesses, expected to follow certain social cues and unspoken rules that she had difficulty picking up upon.

Helaena, allowed to forsake duty in preference to spend her time with her children and her dragon, where she’d been herself above Princess Helaena of all else, not having to put on a mask and play a part because you did it for her. 

Helaena, seen frequently on Dreamfyre, Queen Rhaena's mount before it was hers, the smallfolk recognising the pale blue scales of the creature above, associating her with the nostalgia of the prosperous reign of the Old King, while you were chastised for riding Silverwing and taking away from your duties. 

Your mother and grandsire expected you to be the perfect princess, while Helaena was allowed to be herself.

“You see your sister, don’t you? She might be older than you, but she’s the gentleness of our line.” Your mother had chided you one night as she deftly braided your hair before bed.  “You and your brothers must always take great care of her”

The words cut deeply now, as you remembered her soft, gentle nature and how you had failed to protect her.

The memory of Helaena was bittersweet.

A Targaryen’s softer side, as children, you would care for her, as your mother had instructed.  She never liked the touch of the maids, so you’d always been the one that braided her hair. You could never forget the softness of silver mane when you would brush it for her. But now, all that remained was the poignancy of knowing that you had failed her. You had not been able to protect her, as your mother had asked. And so, every memory you had of her was tarnished, like a once beautiful object now broken and useless.

You had always been the one to fulfil your duties, to put others before yourself. But who was left for you? Who was there to care for you, to love you, truly and deeply?

Humble and loyal had been your motto, not chosen by you. No, your mother had, as she had for all of you, and you had lived by yours faithfully. Loyal to your family. To your House, to your blood, to the ideals you have inherited, to those you follow and will die for. 

Humble and penitent is what you have become. Rhaenyra demanded so.  She had demanded penance from you for the sins of your brother, the usurper, that of your family, and you had given it, humbling yourself before her wrath, become the embodiment of humility and penance, at her command.

Not yet a corpse, not yet a human, and rot clogged at your insides, trapped in a state of being, somewhere between life and death, as if your very existence was a limbo.

A limbo someone was particularly interested in pulling you from.

If Jacaerys had been ignoring you, Reynford was more than happy to leave abide his dues to pay his due diligence to you.  Filling into your steps was his. Where you went, he followed. Where your eyes landed, his were there to catch them.  Ser Rickard’s white cloak always acted as a means to shield you from unwanted attention and straying eyes, but when without Ser Rickard’s presence you could only hope to turn to the gods for protecting from that which taunted you so. 

You had allowed this to happen. If there was someone to blame, it would be yourself. But you had a feeling he carried something you’d want to hear, and you were willing to face the darkness that scared you so.

It was one dark afternoon. By then, it had been raining for days — a part of you hoped the sky took pity on you and shed the tears you’d been left dry of, but you knew the most likely answer was that the weather was letting on its last efforts before the air would fill with pollen and the warmth of the sun.

The rain pitter-pattered outside of your room, and the wind clashed and banged against the cold surface of your window, which seemed on its last strength in holding the storm brewing outside from seeping your bones.  You sat in front of the fireplace in your room, the floor a comfort you could afford in the lack of leisure you lived by.  The flame of the fire beamed high, the wood burning within overturned by one of your maids each time the flame dimmed ever so little. Its kiss warmed the skin of your cheeks, clashing with the cold the stone of the room kept inside of it, sending shivers at the change of temperature surging through your body. At times, you held your hand too close for your maids’ liking, one of them often coming to pull you away in fear of you possibly doing something as reckless as letting your hand go through the flames. 

Fools, the whole of them. Targaryens do not fear fire. If it engulfed you whole, you would embrace it like an old friend. 

I am the blood of the dragon; I must not fear. It is something you often tell yourself in moments of great tribulation. 

As you fiddled with the seven prayer beads of the faith, murmuring hymns of prayer you were taught since you were a babe by your mother, who used to lull you to sleep with them, a copy of 'The Book of the Mother’, once belonging to her, worn and with annotations written on the side of the illuminated manuscript, laying wide open on the front panels of your skirts as servants moved about the room, tidying it and cleaning it out, you decided to show no fear when the stony dornish girl entered the room, bowed and announced the presence of the visitor's beyond the door.

"Lord Reynford Redwyne, princess".

Your heart skipped a beat at the sound of his name. The prayer you’d been humming is left dying on your lips, the beads hanging in your hands as you turned from the hearth to look at the door, sensing even from it that Reynford meant business — but so did you. 

“Let him in.”

He came strutting through the door in a great hurry, dressed in the grandeur of the name only his house could afford. Silence followed his sudden and untoward presence in a space he looked so unfamiliar in. So out of place, he looked, but so did you when you’d first moved to this room too. 

You turned to your servants, each with their heads bowed in respect. You tightened your lips before letting out a cold ” Leave us.” 

One by one, each of them swiftly dispersed, leaving you alone with the man. He stopped short of a breath, bypassing the servants exiting, stopping Nyssella of all, handing her a velvety pouch, whispering something in her ear, the same way he did with you, and you only wished to slash his face open with the knife sitting at the table not far from you the sight churning at your insides. 

You might have, were you not a lady above all else. And a lady’s courtesy demanded you’d be agreeable. 

Closing the door behind her, she left you two to wallow in the unbecoming silence of the room.  As he approached, the only sound reverbing in the room was his footfalls, chains, and belts chiming with each step.

His eyes stormed over your form until they stopped at your hands, bloody and raw, clutching and turning over and over the beads.

“Forgive me, my lord, but I do not think that I am an ample conversation partner today" you murmured, your eyes stuck to the flickering flames of the fire before you. An effort to keep your sanity.  He suppressed the pang of disappointment that tugged at his chest. You did not even deign him with a look; surely, it hit his pride. 

His brows furrowed ever so slightly, his lips tightening over a straight line, the cracking of his knuckles like chalk on a board, straining your ears and driving you mad.

"I can see that," he said, his eyes moving to the table beside him, where a couple of plates filled with food he could only presume to have been your lunch remained untouched, surely left by the servants in case you grew hungry over time, which he argued would not happen.

"And what's causing this, if I may ask?" His hand reached for a wooden toy dragon delicately painted in a grey coat. His fingers traced the part where the paint had come undone, chipping against its surface. The toy looked new; surely It could not be because of the wear of time.

”I’ve been told you have not left your room today or the day before?” He sighed “Or any of the passing days. How long have you locked yourself in here? Weeks? I expected to hear from you…”

“Forgive me, I could not find the strength”, you were able to muster in subtle annoyance, voice low and rough as if you had consumed it all. His brow raised at the notion of you possibly having lost it in a screaming fit. He left the toy on the table, taking a few great steps to your still form on the floor, clutching his hand behind his back.  “Why is that?” “He’s been ignoring me…” you breathed, a sharp intake that looked almost painful “I fear he’s mad at me.”

You needn’t need speak the name of the man causing you such pain, for Reynford was already aware of this predicament that had befallen you. Of course, he had, how could he not after a little altercation he’d had with the prince not much earlier? That, he would not tell. It was a tale for another time.

But as to not raise any alarm in you, especially not in this state, for he worried you could not come to handle such revelation, he played along.

“He hasn’t been speaking to you, I take it?”  "Not a word.” you whispered "He evades me.Turns his back on me so as not to cross my path. My very presence draws him away” Your hand trembled with each word you spoke, the beads in your hand along with your scarred and maimed flesh.  “And you’ve come to your conclusions as to why?”  “You know very well why” you scoff, voice dripping with dry sarcasm ”Us two. He saw us talking that day in the throne room. He...might have misunderstood, but he won't let me explain” Your voice trembled with pain, exasperation and urgency. Your teeth gritted, each set grinding on the other.

He furrowed his brows, his eyes fixed on you. So that was it.

 "He saw us," he repeated, his voice quiet as if contemplating some big discovery. A moment of silence passed, filled only with the sound of the fire crackling. He let out a sigh, his jaw clenching. "My fault, I suppose, I wasn't exactly subtle, was I?" he asked, a small smile entertaining his words "The young prince is quick to assume, is he not? Ah, the rush of youth pooling through him. So young and so eager to prove himself. In all the wrong ways one supposes.”

He chuckled softly, shaking his head slightly in a mix of amusement and resignation.

”You know him. All rash and urgency. Headstrong and impulsive. He takes after his late step-father, the Prince Daemon,” his lips curled up in the ghost of a bemused smirk ", and that is no surprise, not really. I've always assumed he was turning too much like him, too stubborn and reckless and proud. Perhaps a bit too impulsive for his good", he muttered, the smile on his lips fading "It won't do him well in the future” a beat, then “unless he has the right person beside him to calm that temper of his.”

His eyes flickered over to you, studying you for every little reaction you could have had to your words, the way you held yourself, the way you fiddled with the beads in your hands. 

"I know what you're thinking..." you said "We got to have it out, I think. Perhaps I already knew" 

You stood from the ground, closing the book, marking the page you were on with the beads. You walked to place it on the table, before regarding him with a sharp inbreathed. 

”Your plan. The one you've been plotting all along — the one you approached me with falsehoods about”

He smiled at your words, your perceptive nature a sight to behold. He pushed himself away from the table, pacing a few steps down and back before stopping, arms folded behind his back. 

"You have me figured out, I fear," he said, his voice low, “That’s good. We’re free to speak openly about this, then. Always been sharper than you let on. I have your mother to thank for that.” "But that's what you like about me, no?" you spat coldly, “The untouched, perfect piece you can mould to your liking to win this battle of chess you alone are playing. The pawn that’ll guarantee you unquestioned victory.” You gritted your teeth further, feeling your sharp canines ache with the effort “Because who could have ever thought of the traitor’s sister?”

His grin is almost wicked, and his eyes darken in a way you’d never seen before, but what scares you most is how collective he looks despite all.

"You do me a disservice.” He chuckles lowly “You’re far more than just a pawn, princess. You're a force to be reckoned with. A queen.” his gaze flickered down to the seven-pointed star of your necklace. "One could misgive your words for treason", you teased, your own show of strength coming forward. “and where would your plan go from there? I'm sure you'll find a way to evade death even then” "You give me too much credit.” he moved closer, closing the space between you, his shadow enveloping your form "I wouldn't get caught now, would I?” “You’ll be too sly for that.” “You know me well,” he muses, “but you don’t see beyond the surface.” "What is there that I don't see?" You snarled, "Enlight me, will you?”

Your question was a challenge, a taunt, an invitation to speak as freely as a man of his station could. No riddles or ominous words would be spoken no more.

He reached a hand to graze your hair, free of the confines of braids, twists, or hairnets, petting it down.  ”You are so much like your mother in a certain light", he whispered "You're right, I am using you, but I'm also protecting you since I was unable to protect her.” he said "Your mother's cause did not die with her. I harbour it still. As the last of her line, I will make sure I see her plans to the end. That is the only way I can keep you safe.”

The intensity of his words sent shivers down your spine, but the gentle pull of your hand lingering about your flowy locks lulled you into a quiet state. The scepticism and curiosity staring back at him, which pooled your eyes, all but made him smile in that hard-lined way of his.  “You question me I can see,” he said “I do not blame you, I did come too forward our last time. I must have frightened you. Forgive me, it was not my intent, I did not think you so easily impressed.” 

The words you wished to spit back at him died in your mouth. He had rendered you speechless, stumbling on a well, a damn that had broken.

"You're not like your brothers", he murmured, pausing for a moment to watch the way the fire flickered in your eyes, "You're not like your father.”

You didn't know when your eyes began to water, the sting of the tears gathering in your eyes burned your irises unfocus, his last words allowing one singular tear free of the confines kept in, Hot and wet, it rippled on your skin like the waves of the sea. He whipped it away with the pad of his thumb, no indifference to the lack of restrain you’d just let his eyes fester upon. 

"Your mother tested her hand in a path forged by a fire, not of her own making, but by that of dragons, creatures far beyond her understanding. She met the fate the gods saw fit for her to fall into," he sighed defeatedly "With her gone and all her children except you, one would think there would be no one around to fight for her blood to run for the throne” His hand receded from your cheek to grasp your chin, lifting it gently, his gaze boring into your eyes, his expression intense and determined, his fingers gentle yet firm.

"Yet, here you are, the last of your mother's lineage, still alive and fighting to continue her cause," he said, his voice low and urgent. "others whisper that we should advance your niece Jaehaera, but alas, I cannot put a child on the throne" he shrugged “nor can I hold the throne for a child that does nothing but play with her dolls and weep at the first occurrence she’s bid to do what she does not want to do.” 

Sensing your displeasure at the way he talked about Jaehaera, he bowed his head in a show of submission “Forgive the phrasing, I did not mean to offend the little princess.”  Offence seemed to be the last thing he ever wanted to do. And yet he always managed to offend. His hand slid down from your chin to your jaw, his thumb trailing along your face, his gaze never leaving yours, still intense and unwavering.

"And so you are the only one left," he said in a soft whisper.

The fire crackled in the background, providing the only other sound besides the soft thump of your heartbeat in your ears. His words weighed heavy in the air, and you could feel the intensity of his gaze on you.

“How do you mean to give me a throne?” You echo his sentiment for once, and for a moment you become two bodies sharing one heart.  “The only way I can,” his tone grows serious “, the only way you can.” You gulped down a hard knot as realisation crushed down before you.  "Jacaerys..." you whispered. You shook your head. Wretching in mild violence against his grip. “I could never use him in such a way-“ "It is not an act of selfishness, princess," he said, his voice taking on a hard, commanding edge as his eyes bore into yours. "It is self-preservation. I know how you love the boy. No matter how you deny so. Wouldn't you want him to be yours? His queen beside the throne he sits on?” His thumb gently traced your lower lip, a tender yet almost possessive gesture. “And in return, I'll give you what I promised. Security, power. A throne" he smirked “freedom.”

Your eyes were wide, your pulse palpitating in a way it never had, your breath was laboured, your chest heaving in and out.  "He doesn't love me" you whispered, the words slipping out before you could stop them. “You fool.” his whole demeanour changed completely. Gone was the tenderness as he now shook his head mockingly.  “Of course he does. Open your eyes, will you? Everyone knows of his affection for you. A prisoner treated the way you are? Who do you think you have to thank for that? Rhaenyra? Were it up to your damned sister, you’d be in a motherhouse, singing hymns and praising the gods”  "But why-" you whispered, your words cut off abruptly as he seized your face in a sudden, almost harsh manner. Fingers dig into your cheeks, forcing you to look at him, a mixture of desperation and irritation radiating from his gaze as he leaned closer. "Do not play ignorant with me now, princess," he breathed right on your face, "You are far more intelligent than that, and I have no time to indulge in childish games of pretence.” Your face contorted in fury "Let go of me!.” "No," he replied with the same fury blazing through his eyes "Not until you speak truthfully to me. You're no fool; I know you see it. I know you do. You know he loves you. You’re scared of what that means. He is everything and you're nothing. Why would the heir to the iron throne ever love a traitor's sister, huh?” His words stung, and you felt yourself bristle at the insult to your pride. He was right, and both you and he knew it. You were a prisoner, the sister of a traitor, a victim of your family's actions.

What right did you have to claim the love of the future king?

“Stop” you pleaded weakly, gripping his arm. "I will not" he raised his tone "if you want me to, command me then. Tell me to step aside. Show me you’re the only woman in the seven kingdoms worthy of his love.”

 The audacity he had to even suggest such a thing, to challenge your very being. You wanted to tell him off, rip at his face in anger as you told him to leave you be, to forget about all his machinations and schemes. The other part, though, the deeper part that he knew so well, felt a pang of desire in your core.

“You are cruel”  you whispered, your voice quivering with an anger that mingled with a strange sense of arousal. “I am pragmatic.”

Those words made you lose all rationality. With the last bit of your strength, you pushed away from him, parting the both of you. You both stumbled to regain your footing, the push that strong.  Surprise etched his face, but not for long, replaced with a smirk. He knew he had gotten to you, and he revelled in it.

“You will never do that again” you whispered dangerously.  He stopped midstep, swallowing his curse, regaining his breath, smiling in the most genuine way you had ever seen him do, “Blood of my blood. I see you now.” He took another step toward you, his smirk never faltering as he watched your expression "I must've really upset you", he mused, his tone almost nonchalant. "but I can see now that I'm speaking to the real you.” His words hit you like a punch to the gut. You bristled at the implication that he knew you better than you knew yourself, even though deep down, you knew he was right. 

Damn him. He had a way of getting under your skin. Of unravelling you, layer by layer until nothing but the clay you’d been shaped you were left exposed.

You tried to regain your bearing, even if but little. "Tell me," you said, or moreso ordered, "Tell me the whole you've been planning until now” “I’ve thought much and more about where the complexities of this web I’ve been weaving begin and where they end” he mused “I know you will not like what I will speak of, but there is no other way we clear the path ahead unless you make peace with Rhaenyra.”

His eyes searched yours even as you forced them not to roll all the way into the back of your head and stay in place. 

"It's the only way, I'm afraid," he said, his voice soft and almost gentle "You have to be on good terms with her" he added "At least pretend to be, for the sake of appearances and favour.”

You shook your head annoyingly, your feet pacing you around the room as you considered his words. 

“Don’t do that,” he grumbled authoritatively. "I need you to listen.” “Am I not?” you argued dismissively.  “No, you’re not. You have to play along," he insisted. ”She will invite you for supper tonight. Word has spread of your…’ condition’, and perhaps she has wisely realised that before she puts a warrant for your death, you’ll kill yourself by your own designs, and she can’t have that, can she? Not unless she wishes to make an enemy of Old Town. Tonight, you’ll go, put the front a pained, sad, loving little sister and when the time is right, you'll make your case”

His instructions are clear, and his intentions ever clearer.

“You’d expect me to throw myself at her feet for mercy? Haven’t I begged enough?” you asked him incredulously, disbelief evident in your expression. "Is that all I'm to be? A meek supplicant, begging for scraps from the table of the enemy?”

“Yes!” he dragged his words, his exasperation with you coming to a tilt. “A tragic figure who has lost everything and needs nothing more than the benevolence of the enemy — because that’s what you are! Sometimes, even the bravest among us must bend the knee before we can rise once more. Rhaenyra may be a Queen. But she’s a mother, a sister, a woman before Queen. She has a woman’s parts and all the squeamishness reserved for her sex. She’ll have no choice but to listen to you.”

You bit down on your tongue to avoid snapping at him, the bitter taste of defeat and surrender filling your mouth. You knew he was right, in his twisted, pragmatic way. Sometimes, the only way to survive was to surrender, to play the part of the submissive, defeated fool, you had learned as much.

His words rang true. You needed her.

The journey to Rhaenyra’s apartment is excruciatingly long. Reynford had proved right, and just before you usually took your meals, Rhaenyra’s lady-in-waiting, Elinda Massey had come to call on you. 

The steps of the grand staircase that connected the king’s apartment, the queen’s apartment, and the upper floor’s Tower of the Hand each seem to last longer than the other, and with one you take a hundred more appear for you to take.  The dragon sconces hanging on the walls are alight with fire. The night is as dark as its darkest hours, with crickets singing their songs, The air is light but heavy with the smell of musk the rain left behind.  You’re announced by Ser Lorent, and let it by his holding of the door open for you. 

You must look a mess, but so had Reynford instructed you to. You had neither washed nor changed into clothes befitting an audience with the Queen. All so you could play the part. You usually spent your afternoons draped over your bed, sometimes sleeping, sometimes just resting, and without your indulged time, you were left cranky and twitchy like a ferret.

“No bath. No change of gown. Go as you are.”

A large rectangular space with soaring ceilings, the king’s quarters were divided into a reception area, a study, and a sleeping quarter. Manly, masculine, and tall, big architecture, as befits a king. But it’s not a King that occupies such space. It’s a Queen, your sister, in the place your father, your brother before her once filled with their presence.  With the tail of your eye, you spy the elaborately carved bed decorated with sumptuous bedding. It’s where you last saw your father before he passed, convulsed by his illness, lost to the milk of the puppy, as you dabbed his forehead of the perspiring he was waning of.  It’s where you last told Aegon goodbye as he indulged in a cup of red Arbour wine instead of his medicine. As the roars of dragons resounded in the capital, bats of heavy wings announcing their arrival.

The same cup you used to serve him the poison that killed him, just as Rhaenyra’s guards burst into the castle. The same poison the cup was filled that you made sure was found in Lary’s possessions. 

A gentle death for a cruel soul. You’d rather have him die as a rat than have his head mounted on the spikes of the walls of the Keep. It was your first and last gift to him. He’d drank it, you’d turned to place it back on the tray, and the second you returned to him, he was gone, blood dripping out of his mouth and nose, his eyes wide but empty of life as he stared at you.  You closed his eyes and kissed his forehead.  Your last goodbye to him as you felt the sounds of heavy footsteps and shouts of the guards looking for him.  But Larys arrived before them, ready to infiltrate your brother out of the capital as he had with Jaehaera and Maelor months earlier. You screamed, cried and pointed your finger accusingly at the man who had killed your brother, who, in turn, claimed false the claims he’d been accused of as he was carried and thrown to a cell to await his judgment. A vial was found in his room, carefully planted by his squire, which you had paid off, that’d landed his head on the chopping board for betraying the King he’d sworn fealty to. 

Tears of Lys, maester Gerardys had declared, as judgment was laid on Clubfoot. 

Rhaenyra is dressed in a crimson gown, less elaborate than the one she wears for appearance's sake. Her long silver hair falls loosely about her shoulders, an image of effortless grace and regality even at her age.  She stands out against the opulent surroundings of your father’s former apartments, her presence filling the room with a sense of command.  She turns when she hears you enter, a slight frown appearing on her face as she takes in your dishevelled appearance. But her expression quickly softens into something like pity as she sees the weary, listless state you are in.

"You're trembling", she murmured gently, but it was a cold sound. Her voice breaks you from your reverie, pulling you back to the present. “Take a seat,” she orders, gesturing to a plush armchair close to hers.

Your steps heavy and weary as you comply. Your body sank into the soft fabric of the chair, a tired sound pulled from your lips. Rhaenyra watches you with an appraising gaze, her expression unreadable. A servant nearby appears with a goblet of crimson liquid and offers it to you before it's quickly dismissive by a flick of Rhaenyra’s wrist. 

The air in the room is heavy, charged with tension as you fiddle with the cup in your hands. She studies you, you can see, as you sip the honeyd mixture, letting the sharpness of the wine slide down your throat and into your belly. Her gaze never wavering. When she speaks, her voice is soft and measured but, alas, calculating. 

"You look unwell,” she observes, her gaze roaming over your dishevelled appearance. “I have not been myself as of late.” She hums, a sound so soft for the hardened person she had become, a hint of something, concern perhaps, flashing through her eyes. She leans forward slightly, her gaze locked on you. "Is it grief?" she asked. The question so sudden. A whisper so impactful.  ”it never leaves", you gulped down another sip ", but I must carry on.” “Yes, you must," she agrees understandingly, her voice quiet but with a hint of steel. She leans back in her chair, her gaze fixed on you as she continues, "We must do. But not like this.”

Pity. You realised. Concern, too, but pity was what she regarded you with. A glimpse of something akin to a kindred pain, a shared burden she knew all too well herself.

A daughter, a son, a mother figure, a husband. You realised Rhaenyra knew well the pain of losing family.  The pain of loss, of grief, of solitude is, unfortunately, a shared burden. Rhaenyra spoke softly, a hint of shared experience in her voice,  “I know the pain of losing love”.

And the pain of replacing them. When Daemon died in the battle above the Gods eye, Rhaenyra had been urged and later forced to take on a third husband. The first ruling Queen to sit on the throne after a civil war that resulted in so many losses could not allow herself to go without following the expectations put before her.  Rhaenyra had four sons, three under her yolk at the time, to inherit after her, but a woman ruling without a man by her side would simply not do so. 

Her council had chosen for her Qoren Martell. The same Qoren you had heard tales of your father considering wedding her to in her youth as a way of bringing Dorne into the realm. Now aged and rule hardened, Qoren had been less than pleased to broker marriage talk with the Targaryens. You remembered the letter he sent back to your grandsire when first approached with favours, wishes and prosperous promises in return for his support and that of Dorne in the war.

 He had written back a single yet very telling note.

“Dorne has danced with dragons before. I would sooner sleep with scorpions.”

But Qoren did not seem to have a problem sleeping with a dragon if it meant making him the King Consort of the Seven Kingdoms. 

The marriage had happened the moment Rhaenyra lay victorious. With no more brothers to rise against her, she could finally sit the throne unchallenged. They made for a handsome couple. The ceremony is said to have rivalled the Golden Wedding of King Jaehaerys and Queen Alysanne. All the splendour insisted by Rhaenyra herself, who believed a show extravagance might quench the hunger people had for more than just food. Dorne covered half the cost, with the crown's coffer still laying empty of a quarter of its last strength. But it could not masquerade that neither wished to be part of this grotesque misalliance. 

Dorne had once and for all joined the Seven Kingdoms, a feat no Conqueror had been capable of. But, at last, your sister, a woman and the first queen in her own right, had accomplished it simply by offering her bed to a Martell.  Except for the fact that Qoren could be found anywhere but in Rhaenyra’s bed. Everyone knows of his share of lovers and paramours he keeps busy with. He relishes in the privileges his position offers without so much as putting the effort in it. You were glad he was a somewhat decent parental figure and loyal to a fault. Otherwise, you worried Jacaerys would have taken Qoren's head himself for his indiscretions towards his mother. 

Rhaenyra may turn her eye to her husband’s transgressions, but you know of the whispers behind her back that it is a sign of her terrible lack of taste in decision-making. Qoren had flowered the court with a mix of foreign flavours alongside the many Dornish noblemen and ladies that flocked to court in favour of the new Consort.  But alas, the dornish traditions he and the others embezzled around did not go well with some of the courtiers who grew the seed of dissent through the man and blamed it on Rhaenyra.

You could not disagree with the fact that Qoren looked like the better prospect for your sister. Sure, Corlys had pushed for one of his own Velaryon relatives, but Rhaenyra had digressed on the basis that: “You’re a loyal servant, Corlys. But a Queen does not marry her servant’s subjects. Only her own.”

Enraged at the dismissal and the umpteenth time at being passed over for the throne, Corlys retreated back to his seat at High Tide, rebuilt after the Battle of the Gullet with the scraps left behind. He did not attend the wedding and only returned to court at the urging of his nephew, Jacaerys, who had brokered peace between his mother and grandfather once again.   One would think that with such a show of displeasure, Corlys had been the one turned down as a possible suitor. Not a nephew or cousin of his.

Qoren brought wealth, steel and the costumes of his house, which Rhaenyra needed. Many men would ruffle their feathers at being sidelined to the regards of a Consort — but not Qoren. His son and daughter, Qyle and Coryanne Martell, had made the journey to the capital with him while his eldest daughter and heir, Aliandra, remained at Sunspear to overlook her father’s seat. 

It wasn’t to dismiss also that Qoren proved worthy of the union the very moment he joined hands with Rhaenyra —by finding her lost son, Viserys, believed to have died in the Battle of the Gullet. It was the combined efforts of Qoren, his son-in-law, Drazenko Rogare and the aid of the legitimized Velaryon heir, Alyn Velaryon, that the gods shined their light of luck upon Rhaenyra, who, after two years of being believed to be lost at sea, reunited with her little prince, fallen into the hands of the Rogares by the sheer luck of merchants selling him about. 

The Rogares had not proved easy to negotiate with. Lysaro was as hard-headed as his brother Drazenko has warned. He wished for his daughter Larra to be wedded to Viserys. Rhaenyra vehemently refused and threatened Lysaro that if he did not abide by his tenure, he would soon meet the same fate as those who dared rise against her.  Lysaro was not convinced, but only when Drazenko advised his brother to lay his pride unless he wished to see his keep burned, he begrudgingly relented, and an agreement was formed.

Viserys would be returned on the condition that when he came of age, he would marry the daughter of Aliandra and Drazenko, the four-year-old Alyssandra, making him the future prince consort of Dorne. 

And so it was decided. A huge ransom was paid to the merchant princes of Lys, all by Qoren’s coffers, and Viserys was brought to the shores of Westeros once again. 

The boy had grown, that was certain. A strappy, lean lad of ten, no more the green and scared eight-year-old his brother Aegon had last seen. The two brothers reunited in a great show of affection, and Viserys’ return did much to lessen Aegon’s loneliness and guilt. Aegon worships his two, once three, elder brothers —  but it's Viserys with whom he shares his bed-chamber, his lessons, and his games.  Nowadays, he seldom part from him still, as if afraid to lose him once more. You saw it him in, at times, when watching him as he played with Jaehaera. The same guilt you shared. A boy still, but such wrath to never truly forgive himself for leaving Viserys to his fate when he fled the Gay Abandon on dragon back before the Battle of the Gullet.

You twisted the cup in your hand before taking another great sip. She watches you as you do so, the way your fingers grip the glass tightly, almost as if you were grounding yourself in the present moment, her eyes trailing from your hands to your lips and meeting your eyes.

“The grief is hard to shake, but it’s the loss of purpose that truly gnaws at you” Your fingers grip the glass tightly, as a means to ground yourself in the present moment. "I have no greater purpose now than being at your mercy", you murmur "Long are the forgotten days of plots and exploits at the end of my mother and grandsire. Gone as they are. I hope you know that.”

Rhaenyra regards you with a knowing look, her eyes searching you for any signs of falsehood.  “I do know, and I must say, the change in your disposition is a welcomed one. I've always known that you were all victims at the hands of your mother's ambitions. Led astray by the counsel of evil men.”

Your teeth dig into the flesh of your tongue to not let an unkind or any kind of word come out. Anger boils at you. The fragility of your frame shakes in the same manner one might as in a state of great distress. 

"You don't have to put on such a performance," her lips tilt, but it’s more sneer than smile. As if she has already been shown a show such as this one. ”There’s no one you need to impress. You may speak freely.”

But instead, you push on. Past your quarrels. Past your judgment, your anger, and your fear in a show of courage. Or rather theatric. 

"Your grace, I beg you to listen to me." you stand, and the cup is placed on the table, soon to be long forgotten as you come to stand before her "I've been selfish. Naive. And I've wronged you.” 

There’s a tremor in your voice, so well placed that even you believe yourself. 

“I’ve neglected my duties. In my confinement, I’ve allowed myself to fall into my vices. But illness is no excuse. The gods know so, and they command of me to take on the greatest duty of all. Serve you.”

Your knees let you down in a harsh fall by her feet. Your knees scream in pain, but you make no show of it. Your hands slither up her skirts to fist at the silks.  “I know you must have been told. You must have heard. You must have been whispered to ill-meant words of my character. My intentions. My will. But I’m here to show you that none of it is truth. False. I will declare so before the gods.” 

Tears, pools of rippling water, burned down your cheeks like acid. Like the one coming up your troath.

“I offer myself to you, sister. I’m yours, yours alone. I bid you to do with me as you wish, but if, god willing, you have it in you to show mercy upon me, I beg you to find in you the love you once had for me.”

You watch as the cold indignity she regarded you with slipped from her face, her eyes warming in the same way they did many years ago.  She places her hand softly upon your head, her touch gentle and almost motherly. 

"Enough," she commands, her voice barely above a whisper. "You are my own blood. I will not have you begging like a beggar. You've asked for my forgiveness, and I shall take you back into my heart. Whatever else has become of you, you remain the blood of the dragon and my sister, whom I love.” 

Rhaenyra’s fingers gently thread like rippling water through your hair, her touch tender and comforting. "All is forgiven now.”

Her words are tender, but they strike a deep chord within you, the raw emotion and the relief of them overwhelming. 

Tears stream down your face. You’re not sure if as falsely as before. Your breath catches in your throat as you press your forehead down on her knee. She reaches for you, her hands gently pulling you up and back onto your feet. She stands, towering over you as she always has, her presence powerful. "Come, take your place at my side," she says softly, her hand coming softly to your chin, tilting your face up towards hers.

She cups your cheeks with her hands. The many rings adorning her fingers cool the warmth of your tear-strained face. She pushed the hair away from your face, letting it frame it as she tugged the front behind your ears. 

"There you are" she smiled, a rare sight from her. She keeps a firm grip on your chin, her thumb gently rubbing at the tears on your cheeks. "Look at you," she said. "You're a mess.” She tuts at you the way she would a child, gently tilting it this way and that, studying your every bit of your features. "You need a bath, some proper clothes, and a good night's sleep," she says with a great sigh. "You look like you haven't eaten in days. I can't have that if you're to be one of my ladies.” “Ladies?” You stutter out the word in feign confusion. You know better. 

"Yes, ladies", she replied, "If you're going to be by my side, you'll need proper gowns. No more of these dreary dark drapes you insist on wearing. You’ll have a seamstress to dress you. You'll eat proper meals and be taken care of. No more wearing yourself to the bone, my dear. You'll have proper bedchambers and proper companions to dine and gossip with. As all ladies in waiting do.” Her thumb moves to gently trace the line of your lower lip, her gaze still fixed on your face. "No more of this," she murmured, her tone more serious now. "You won’t waste away like this any longer. I won’t allow it. I have Jacaerys telling me off all the time about it enough.”

“He does?” You lose your voice, and your lungs are without breath. Your intentions are lost, your purpose wavering. Your belly comes alive with the dance of butterflies you don’t remember having swollen. And all of a sudden, you’re hungry. Hungry to know more, to hear more, be told more. 

“He speaks often of his concern for you. He’s been…rather insistent on your wellbeing. It’s all I hear every time I talk to him. It’s what got me worried as well. Why I called for you tonight. I can see his concern was in good faith. I’ll have to thank him for that. And I don't doubt for a second that he won't be glad to see you in good health and spirits again. Though, I don’t suppose I could take all the praise for it, can I? He surprises me more each day, that one.”

‘He thinks of me’ Your heart feels light; it skips a beat, catching your breath violently, and you feel so foolish for having thought he spared none of his for you. Then, perhaps, he's not been ignoring you because he's mad at you. 

If that were to be the case, then that means he’s…

Oh, Jacaerys…

“He cares for you, you know. Deeply,” Rhaenyra rumbles on, unaware of your inner turmoil and the revelation you had just come to. “He has never forgotten the childhood you two shared. I know he thinks fondly of him. In a kinder light than that of any other person, perhaps more than I myself. You were a good influence.” 

She jests, but you can see there’s something dangerous that lingers when talking of the closeness between you and her son. 

It is then you push your luck.

A tentative step, and you’re in her arms, engulfing her whole, holding into her tightly. You close your eyes shut as you await her response to the embrace.  She’s caught off her.  You feel her tense. Her muscles tighten at the suddenness of it all. She wraps her own arms around you, holding you close against her chest, her chin resting lightly atop your head. Her chest moves steadily with each breath — in and out, out and in — the rhythm almost lulling you into a state of comfort. Rhaenyra has not allowed herself to soften the rough steel she has turned her skin into in many a year.

Rhaenyra is rage. She’s overwhelming and maddening grief. She is the anger and the frenzy that drives a hand capable of hurting those near to you. She is the sadness in betrayal and the love in nostalgia. She will keep bleeding until there is no more to be given until everyone around her is completely and irreparably stained. she is the hope of a child whose trust has not yet been taken and the mistrust after a heart is broken. 

Helaena was the coming home and being trusted with the deep, painful feeling of nostalgia running deep inside your veins without really knowing why. Dreaming of days old gone, wishing to have them back, knowing the impossibility of such a thing, letting it be your demise. 

And you. You’re forever trying to cleanse your hands over the guilt that consumes you. But the red never leaves. Doomed to spend your life trying to scratch your way out of your body

Three sisters, now two. Rhaenyra is all you have. 

Guilt washes at you, as it always does. You know it well. It closes your troath and clouds your mind. You’ve felt it before, and you know you’ll feel it tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after that. Yesterday, today, tomorrow, until the end of your days. But now, you’d rather let it consume you whole than let yourself be drowned in it.  The gods as your only witness. 

As you leave her room, the night is deep. The keep haunted by the silence brought by the sleep of its inhabitants. The guards standing at her door do not watch you leave, but you know they’re aware of your every movement. The air bites at the skin of your neck and turns your fingers a hot red as you make the journey back down the great staircase. With a jolt of your step, you’re on the ground floor. On your right is the entrance hall that will lead you to your room. On your left…is the throne room.

The iron door is heavy as you push it. Old as it is, its hinges sing as it opens.

It’s dark. No torch is lit and no guard is there to watch you your indiscretion. The sound of your feet and the rustle of your skirts fill the empty chamber in all its vastness as you walk down the cavernous stone hall. The eyes of the statues of Kings of Old followed your steps, but you dared not meet their gaze of judgment. No, your eyes were on one thing only. 

The towering, barbed, iron throne.

Doubt seized you. You stared up at it, standing before its steps.  You take on the first, the second, the third and fourth, climbing at them before you loom over the chair. Your hand reaches for the pommel of one of the swords sticking out of the melted armrest. Gently in fear of nicking yourself as your father had.  The steel is cold and harsh. You feel its myrrh on your tongue, its taste filling your mouth.  It's monstrous. All pikes, jagged edges and twisted metal from hundred melted, beaten, broken blades of surrendered enemies. 

It’s ugly — but so is power. 

“A king should never sit easy”, and you do not. The iron beneath pushes through your clothes to your skin until it settles deep within your bones. It hurts, it’s a struggle to find ease with each shuffle of your bottom. One wrong move, and you’re dead.

It killed Maegor. Wrists slashed, and a spike through the troath, the singers say. But you understand it. The allure, the weight of a thousand lives that live the chair. The memory of every man who has sat it before you and paid the cost in blood, violence, heartbreak, pain. The Iron Throne. The most dangerous seat in the world. A seat of power, the beacon and crucible of the whole realm.  A test of will, a challenge to be endured. You sit on it now, your back straight, your head held high and you see the challenges ahead. But could you reign? It’s one thing to sit on it; ruling is another. 

The hall around is empty of life, but you dream of it filled with courtiers, noblemen and noblewomen, peasants and gentry alike, all looking up at you, a scene straight out of your childhood. The finery, the dresses, cloaks, jewels and silks glimmering in the light, staring up at you with curiosity and awe as you did when you were just a girl. The bells of the sept ring in the distance, and the dragons roar as one, the same they did when Criston Cole placed the steel and ruby crown on your brother's brow. Most stared in silence, confused and wary, at the unnatural woman sitting before them, in the centre of it all, like a lone flower standing in a field of grass caught unawares between your past and present. 

We’re all just specks under this big, powerful dome. Grains of salt in this endless desert. We exist only that much. Some truths will be revealed only after time, and some will be forgotten. 

Forgetting is freedom.

Otherwise, the tongue you speak with and the earth you walk on will not let you go.  Just, when did you see yourself superior to all beings the Gods have created? When did pride dominate you, which at night will not let you sleep, and like a storm in the sea rages through my heart and soul? Who recognised you as better than other people and liked you? The day you raised your head, the seed fell in you.

The seed of pride.

If you’re the moon, If you’re the moonlight, he’s your source. He is your sun.  He knows you better than everyone else and loves you most.  He planted the pride in your heart and soul. 

It was the seed that awakened the dragon.   It started wars lasting years and a dynasty like none the world had ever seen before. But, like the dragon’s destiny to lose, just as he himself led to his fall, You, too, feed the seed of pride to prepare your end. 

For every life has a day of judgment. Everyone’s death has a unique colour, and yours shall be dictated by your designs alone.

There are moments when one turns away from mercy to achieve victory. To survive.  Whatever happens, stay alive.  Because this world is for cruel people, not for the valiant.  If you’re not like them,  If you’re not cruel, they won’t let you live. 

Be purified of your fears. Fear evokes evil and hatred. When the time comes, be courageous.  Only with courage, you will get what you deserve. Everyone gets what they want.  What happens in the future will happen because you deserve it.

You wanted it. You knew then. It was a want driven from the deepest, darkest parts of you. You wanted it more than you’d ever wanted anything. No guilt carries your thoughts. Your mother had not felt guilt when she took the throne, and even until the last of her days, she never confessed to any. Why shall you, then?

No one is going to save you. Might as well save yourself. 

May the gods forgive you. And if they don’t, they’ll understand. Will they not? The gods forgive but do not forget, but they, most of all, understand.  But there are no gods here. There are only monsters. A hunger so deprived, as sharp as a dragonglass, that watered your mouth and made your belly rumble in famish.

Humble and loyal be damned. Hidden and patient, that shall be your motto.

You break into a smile. A triumphant, proud smile that evokes all the wrong intentions, knowing that tonight you’d won your first victory.

The throne is yours.

It’s sharp blades and cold edges are now a part of you; they have marked you forever. In you sits the power to rule, the ability to bend the will of men, the right to command armies and wield dragons.

You wish to rule? So you shall. 

You will rule.

Taglist: @esposadomd @aleemendoza2425-blog @nen-nyy @hadesnumber1daughter @salvatorecherry @h6avenly

[kiame-sama]

Tender Love and Care- (Yandere!Miguel x sick!reader)

Warnings; reader is bed bound by illness, helplessness, obsessive miguel, mention of kidnapping, yandere behavior, yandere tendencies, lovesick yandere, semi-soft miguel, scolding, confusion, fever, mention of death, possessive behavior, slight objectification,

~~~~~~~~

"Reckless and stupid, that's all it was! Do you not understand how stupid it was? Truly? You could have caused the multiverse to completely collapse!"

Miguel hissed as he paced in front of the three most recent spider-people to let him down. He thought that they would be able to handle a simple mission, but it was clear that he put far too much faith in those standing before him. Keeping the multiverse from collapsing was no easy feat, but so far it seemed like Miguel was the only one holding things together.

"But, Sir, the parameters of the mission were to deal with the anomalies."

"And did you deal with them? No! Ay, madre de Dios, now Noir and Spider-punk have to deal with the extras you all missed. If I have to step in again on another botched mission-"

The soft sound of coughing made Miguel fall silent, his head turning to the door at the back of his office where his most treasured possession lay. A soft whimper and croaking noise made his brow furrow in worry. The other spider-people standing at attention exchanged a look of confusion before his attention snapped back to them.

"Do better next time or there won't be a next time. Dismissed."

He held his stony demeanor for a moment longer as they shuffled out of his office with their heads bowed low, red eyes trailing the group with precision. The coughing sound came again, this time closer than before. Low ragged breaths were being gasped down as the raspy sound of labored lungs fought to inflate.

"Miguel..?"

"(Y/n)," the dark haired man turned on his heel and approached the now open back door, "you should be in bed resting."

Despite their sallow and sunken features, he still found his dearest to be the most beautiful person he had ever seen. It didn't matter how many universes he had to look through before he found them again, he was going to keep this version alive. Of course, the constant canon events were trying rather hard to take them away, but he wouldn't let that happen.

The current problem was a rather debilitating illness that wracked the body and lungs of his beloved, leaving them gasping for every breath. Each cough struck his heart with pain as Miguel heard the following whimpers that came with any fit. If he could only lift away the illness that plagued his dearest, he would happily do so. However, all he could do for them at this point was keep them comfortable and hope their immune system could fight off the worst of the virus they were plagued with.

"Come on, you need your rest."

They didn't argue or fight against his gentle touch as he herded them back towards the large bed in the room. Though the room had once been for Miguel alone, it was now less sparsely decorated and seemed to have a bit more life to it thanks to the new life he felt he received from his darling. Miguel was careful to keep an eye out for any sign of stumbling or struggling so he could catch his darling before they had a chance to fall.

As their foot caught on the corner of a carpet, he quickly caught them in his arms. He may not have the spider sense like many others did, but he was no less observant of his surroundings. His muscled arms were hardened after years of training and fighting, so lifting his darling the rest of the way into the bed was an easy task for Miguel.

The other spider people knew Miguel had someone in his room, though they didn't know the true origin of how that person came to reside in the room. Not that Miguel would tell them, but he had scoured the many universes for any incarnation of his beloved and only found them after months of searching. They were laying in bed, rendered helpless by the pandemic illness that consumed that universe. He couldn't just leave them laying there without any help or defense.

His universe had already mostly eradicated the virus in question, so he knew they would be better off with him instead of in their dying universe riddled with the aggressive virus. Sure, he hadn't exactly asked if he could take them away, but in their delirium they weren't exactly able to deny thier savior anyway.

Once he got them back to his home, he endeavored to keep them safe and sequestered until the virus passed. Lyla was both supportive and judgemental of Miguel taking and keeping his beloved from their universe, she also knew how it would destroy Miguel to lose them again. She brushed off any questions the other spider-people asked her and simply said Miguel was allowed to keep his personal life away from his work life.

"Miguel..."

The hoarse whine of his dearest drew him back to the present as he finished tucking them into bed, resting a cool cloth over their forehead. They rest their cheek against his hand, nuzzling into his touch affectionately as they stared up at him with a kind of feverish delusion. He let the small smile tug at the corner of his lips as he stared lovingly at his darling.

"Rest, I'll wake you up later with food, alright?"

"M'kay..."

"Te amo, (y/n)."

[damneddamsy]

second sight | cregan stark x oc (part ix)

a/n: on today's episode of Stark angst-fluff, it's all bloodshed and swords. And death.

The gates of Winterfell groaned open, a shadow yawning into the night, and Cregan felt the cold settle through him in a way that wasn’t simply the midnight air. Beneath his calm, the rage lay coiled, ancient and fierce, thrumming with the need to strike. He could feel it stirring, a force under his skin that he’d kept at bay for too long.

Tonight, the reckoning had come, and his enemy came as he’d least expected: alone, at the gates, a twisted mockery of honour that demanded restraint when every instinct demanded blood. His grip on Ice was steady, yet his mind roiled, fixed only on Sylas—the man who had touched what was his, hurt what was his, and now dared to stand in the shadow of Winterfell, the home Cregan had vowed to protect, alone and smirking in the night.

“So,” Sylas called out, his voice echoing mockingly across the courtyard. “The wolf king. Winter itself.”

No allies, no horses, no men. Just one man and the scent of fresh blood dripping from the carcass he’d brought like some cruel gift. The insult seethed in Cregan’s mind. It was more than a challenge; it was a mockery, a claim that Sylas the Grim feared no man, not even the King of the North.

Cregan’s expression remained stony, but his eyes narrowed, catching every sneer and glint of derision. Sylas was baiting him, testing for cracks in his stoicism. But a wolf doesn’t bare its teeth to bark; it saves them for the kill.

“You’ve brought breakfast?” Cregan asked, his voice sharp, restrained. His gaze flicked to the mangled reindeer, its blood staining Sylas’s shoulder and leaving a dark trail in the snow. “Thought you came with more ambitious intentions than a mere dead hart.”

Sylas’s grin widened, yellow teeth bared in something almost akin to amusement. “A civil gift, my king. I don’t need an army. Just a seat by the fire, and the wolf to see to it.”

Cregan crossed his arms. “My hearth is for allies and friends,” he said with an edge to his words. “My guest’s seat isn’t set aside for those threatening the Lady of Winterfell.”

Sylas laughed, the sound coarse and feral, resonating with the ancient and untamed. He glanced over the quiet battlements, then back to Cregan, as if taking in the walls that had withstood centuries.

“Aye, your pretty princess. Talked you up, she did. She seemed sure you were no ordinary man.” Sylas shook his head in mock disappointment. “I expected a king, maybe even a monster. And here you are, just a boy, wrapped in fur.”

A ferocity flickered in Cregan’s eyes, but his voice was calm, tempered. “And you came here alone, claiming a guest’s right?” His lips curved slightly, coldly. “Bold, for a man who sought to break the North.”

“Bold?” Sylas echoed, a dark gleam in his eyes as he stepped closer. “More like knowing what I want. I want the North, boy. And then more...”

He let his words hang, his eyes glinting with unspoken challenge.

The blood in Cregan’s veins pulsed his hand itching for Ice’s hilt. But he held still. He came alone, Cregan reminded himself. Honour bound him to the rules of hospitality, however, twisted they felt tonight.

“Well,” Cregan replied coolly, though the anger simmered like a fire under his words. “You've come bearing meat and hollow promises, but if it’s fire you seek, you’ll find it. As for the rest...” His lips curled in a threat. “When the last bone on that deer has been picked clean, I’ll feed you to my direwolves—meat and all.”

The wildling smirked, shifting the dead weight on his shoulder with a shrug. He took a step forward, the weight of his insolence heavier than any army.

“Good. I’ll take that fire.”

X

Cregan watched Sylas with thinly veiled disgust, his jaw tense as the wildling devoured his meal like a starved animal. Sylas tore the meat with his bare hands, juices dripping down his fingers and settling in his beard, where bits of bread and meat clung, smeared carelessly as he bit into the next piece. Each tear, each wet, ripping sound only served to deepen Cregan's revulsion.

This was the man who’d claimed he wanted to take his wife, the one who would lord over his people and his legacy? The wildling seemed a filthy joke of a threat, and yet, here he was.

As if summoned by some inner protest to this vulgar display, the oak door whined open, and Claere entered. She was freshly bathed, her silver hair gleaming in crowning braids, her dragon-riding leathers perfectly pressed—a deliberate contrast to the wildling seated like a beast across from Cregan.

He stiffened, irritation rising as he caught sight of her. It was mere hours past the hour of the wolf, she waltzed in like it was the first light of the morn. He had to make sure her violet eyes held consciousness, that this was not her on another one of her sleep-walking rituals.

He’d told so many to keep her away if she woke, to make excuses or detours, anything to spare her from this savage again. Yet here she was, gliding in as if she were the queen he knew her to be, composed and unnervingly calm. She stepped forward, her gaze briefly assessing Sylas before she met Cregan’s eyes.

She bent down and kissed him—a light press of her lips on his, murmuring, "Good morrow, husband."

That kiss arrested him, a public display she rarely indulged in. Usually, it was he who initiated, who sought the reassurance of her touch. Now, she was sending a message—to him, to Sylas.

Cregan's gaze darkened as Claere settled beside him, her calm demeanor a direct contrast to the storm brewing within him.

“Claere, love,” he murmured lowly, leaning toward her, his voice tight with a warning. “This is no place—”

She cut him off with a light smile, reaching over. “The bread, please? I’m famished from last night.”

The casualness of it jarred him, yet he passed her a slice with reluctant, guarded hands. She spread it with honey, added a thin layer of cheese, and bit into it. Her movements were practiced, graceful—the kind of elegance that felt all the more pointed in the presence of the feral man across from them.

A stillness fell over the room as Claere’s gaze lifted, settling unflinchingly on Sylas. His smirk froze, and for a moment, he seemed to falter, something almost indiscernible slipping behind his eyes as he took her in. The hungry glint in his stare intensified, though his smirk started to die under her silent, unwavering regard. She merely took another bite of bread, the faintest smile tugging at her lips as she chewed, deliberate as it was unbothered.

“Lord Sylas,” she spoke at last, her voice smooth, lilting with a quiet steel. She wiped the edge of her mouth with a thumb. “Come to draw first blood?”

Sylas’s grin returned, wider this time but edged with something darker. “I’d draw the dress off you if I could, little queen.”

Cregan's hand slammed against the table, plates clattering, as his eyes hardened. His voice came in a low, fierce growl. “Filthy cunt—”

Claere’s soft laugh, muffled behind her hand, slipped into the silence. She let it settle before dropping her hand, her expression calm.

“Forgive him, dearest,” she said lightly, glancing at Cregan with a wry sparkle in her eye. “We mustn’t expect manners from a rabid dog who strays beyond his territory.”

Sylas’s gaze sharpened. “Misplaced loyalty.” His eyes flicked to Cregan, then back to her, almost mockingly. “I would be a kinder lord. I never thought I’d see such a shiny thing descend so low... to a Stark.”

Claere’s stare never wavered, her lips curving faintly again, but the edge in her voice was unmistakable. “Descend?” She tilted her head, the movement controlled, slow. “From where I stand, the only descent I see is yours, Sylas. After all, it’s my husband’s home in which you sit. Like a vermin, starved for scraps.”

Sylas's smirk dimmed, his eyes flashing with irritation before he forced a grin that showed far too many teeth. He leaned back, folding his arms.

“Funny words from behind his shield,” he said.

At that, Cregan's hand jolted toward Ice, but Claere placed her own hand over his, a patient, restrictive touch. She met Sylas’s stare, her voice so soft it was nearly a whisper, yet it was unmistakable in its authority.

“Then try your hand, Lord Sylas,” she replied. “But remember this: before you reach for the Iron throne, you’ll need to survive me.”

Sylas laughed, though the gleam in his eye was feral and frustrated. He tore into another bite of his food, his gaze burning into them both. Still, Cregan could feel the shift in the room, the silent power Claere held even as she sat there, composed, calm as she drew her husband’s hand up to her lips in an unexpected, calculated kiss on his knuckles.

And at that, Sylas fell into a strained silence.

The old wildling spat a chunk of bone to the ground, licking the grease from his fingers with a careless smirk. He leaned forward, eyes flickering between Claere and Cregan, a sly gleam in them.

“Didn’t come here just to fill my belly, boy,” he rasped, voice low and rough. “I came with a deal.”

Cregan’s grip tightened on the edge of the table, his knuckles pale against the wood.

Cregan’s hand gripped the arm of his chair, his knuckles whitening. “Don't waste your breath. Your deal holds no interest for me,” he replied harshly.

“You might be.” Sylas grinned, something feral in his smile as he leaned back, chewing on the edge of a grin. “See, I'll give you what you want most—your North, all of it, untouched and free. No raiders. No bloodshed. It's yours, I'll ride on South. The price?”

His gaze slid to Claere, his expression raw with crude intent. “Her.”

The weight of his words settled heavily. Cregan’s face hardened, his fingers flexing on the hilt of his longsword as he met Sylas’s gaze with unyielding fury. “You think I’d trade my wife for your empty oath?” His voice was cold, a quiet danger laced within each syllable. “You think that’s all I want for her? A future of enslavement and shackles?”

Sylas’s smile only widened, his gaze flicking back to Claere. “Peace, on a plate. A truce,” he went on, voice almost mocking. “For the little queen.”

Beside him, Claere sat perfectly still, her calm presence masking the tension rippling through her. Her eyes narrowed as she regarded Sylas, collected, even as his intentions became glaringly clear.

“There will be no trade,” Cregan said with finality, his tone leaving no room for argument. “She is mine, and neither your threats nor your offers will change that.”

Sylas tilted his head, his face a mask of disappointment. “Pathetic,” he murmured, rising to his feet, and towering over them both. “If she doesn’t come with me, I’ll take your home, every inch of it. And when I do,” he said, leaning close enough for Cregan to catch the bitter edge of his breath, “I’ll take your head too.”

“Then I suggest you start taking your aim,” Cregan rose to his feet, stepping close enough that Sylas could feel the threat radiating off him like heat. “Because you’ll have to kill me to take her. And I don't die easy.”

A dangerous smile played at the corner of Sylas’s mouth. He glanced down at Claere one last time, eyes brimming with twisted satisfaction.

“So be it,” he sighed. “I'll kill you first.”

Sylas's grin twisted as he reached down to the table, plucking a sharp bone shard from the remains of the deer meat. With a snap of movement, he lunged, aiming for Cregan’s shoulder.

Cregan’s reflexes were as quick as they were honed, sensing the threat before it even surfaced. He sidestepped the wildling’s strike, his hand latching onto Sylas’s wrist in an iron grip. With a twist, he forced Sylas’s arm down, the bone shard falling to the floor as Sylas struggled against his hold, sneering in frustration.

“Not before the lady,” Cregan’s voice was a low, lethal rumble, his hand shifting to Sylas’s neck. He tightened his grip, enough to make the wildling’s breathing hitch, and leaned close.

Claere simply scooted her chair away from them, taking a short sip of her water.

Cregan’s grip only tightened, his face a mask of simmering rage. “You’ve already overstayed your welcome,” he growled, voice low, deadly. “You want a fight? I won’t sully my ancestors’ hall for the likes of you. We’ll finish this outside.”

Sylas’s eyes gleamed, his smirk twisting into something feral. “Good.”

Without another word, Cregan released him, shoving Sylas back a step. The wildling stumbled, then righted himself, his grin still plastered across his face as he spat a dark glob onto the floor between them. Cregan watched him, gaze cold and unmoved.

“Hope you’re ready to bleed, wolf,” Sylas sneered, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, the room heavy with anticipation.

X

Dawn barely crept over the horizon, casting a grey, ghostly pallor across the courtyard. Cregan stood, his breath misting in icy clouds, muscles taut as he faced Sylas before the towering gates of Winterfell. The wildling was a solid wall of muscle, twisting a brutal-looking axe in his hands, its edge darkened by countless kills. A ring of soldiers circled the two men, their eyes shifting between them with tense anticipation, breaths sharp in the biting cold.

Sylas grinned, a dark gleam in his eye as he rolled his shoulders back, his size and coiled power making him look like a beast unfurling for a strike.

“You're smaller than she made you sound. And here I thought you'd have some big fangs.”

Cregan’s gaze remained steady, unfazed. “I’ve faced wilder beasts than you in these woods.”

Sylas barked a laugh, lifting his axe as he advanced. “All but me.”

The first swing came roaring and fast, almost catching Cregan off guard. He parried with Ice, though the impact sent a jarring vibration through his arms. Sylas was quick and ruthless, and as they traded blows, he drove Cregan back with brute force, step by step, the ground slick beneath them.

Clang. Thud.

Each blow echoed across the silent courtyard.

Their eyes met briefly as Cregan steadied himself, bracing against Sylas’s next assault. Sylas sneered, breathing hard, the wild gleam never leaving his gaze. “Lady Stark spoke of you like you were a god,” he taunted, swinging his axe again. “But it seems she’s only good at telling pretty tales.”

Cregan twisted his blade up to parry, gritting his teeth as the clash of steel echoed. "You talk too much,” he growled, landing a swift kick to Sylas’s chest.

Sylas staggered back a step, laughing. “Soon she'll be telling those tales to our sons by your fire, wolf."

Cregan’s grip tightened around the hilt of Ice, his knuckles white as he steadied himself, but Sylas was relentless. With a brutal shove, Sylas sent him sprawling again, and the ground came up to meet Cregan in a hard, unforgiving blow. He gasped, feeling the sting of steel biting into his arm as Ice slipped free, the blood seeping quickly into the frost-bitten earth beneath him. The soldiers around him shifted, some whispering, others simply watching as their lord was brought to his knees.

Sylas circled him like a wolf sizing up wounded prey, the twisted grin on his face stretching as he tilted his head to the gathering crowd.

“So this is the wolf of Winterfell? Your king?” he sneered, his voice a mocking growl. “Brought low by a wildling. Tell me, Stark—where’s my little queen?”

Cregan staggered to his feet, pain radiating up his arm, vision blurring as he forced himself to keep his footing. Sylas’s eyes glinted with malice, revelling in every faltering step, every gasp of breath Cregan couldn’t quite catch.

“You’d think the witch would have the decency to show,” Sylas taunted, his voice growing louder, pitched to the soldiers listening in. “Or has she slunk away, letting you bleed for her wrongs?”

Cregan braced himself as Sylas closed in, teeth gritted against the pain, his stance unyielding. But Sylas’s taunts sank on him, gnawing at his focus, his strength ebbing as Sylas struck him hard across the chest. The air was forced from his lungs as he dropped to a knee, every nerve searing with the agony of his wounds.

Sylas grinned down at him, his voice a sneering whisper. “Look at you. A beaten mutt. Unfit to rule.” He leaned closer, voice dripping with venom, “Where is she, huh?”

His words went ignored. With one last surge of strength, Cregan forced himself upright, eyes locking onto Sylas, rage and defiance blazing. He was battered, barely able to stand, but he’d face him to the last breath if it came to that. When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies but the pack survives, his father had said to him once.

Let the lone wolf die. Let him die.

“She burns like the cold,” Cregan said in a painful breath.

X

The bedchamber flickered with dim firelight, casting shadows over the map sprawled between them. Claere and Cregan stood side by side, alone and cloaked in silence, their eyes fixed on Winterfell’s drawn walls and the ragged paths marking where Sylas’s forces would come. They needed no counsel tonight; only themselves.

Claere's face was unreadable, her gaze shadowed, and Cregan felt the weight of something beyond hesitation. He wanted to pull her close, to let his warmth dispel that cold distance, but he held back, tracing his fingers over the edges of the map instead.

“Sylas will move fast,” he murmured, his tone low and matter-of-fact, though his eyes drifted toward her face. “If he pushes hard enough, he’ll think he can break us here.” His finger tapped the curve just south of Winterfell. “He’ll press his men until they’re inside the keep—close enough to choke us in our own walls.”

Claere’s eyes didn’t waver, her expression carved in something colder than he’d ever seen. Yet, beneath it, he sensed a dread she kept buried. For a moment, he thought she might ask for a different way, to use a slower plan, anything to avoid the fire and fury he saw in his own mind.

But instead, her voice came, soft and impassive. “If he’s brought them all here… then Luna can burn them out. It will turn the tide.” Her fingers brushed along the edge of the map, pausing over the paths the wildlings would take, but her gaze held his. “I don’t see any other way.”

Her solemn words struck him harder than the battles they’d fought. She’d chosen this herself. Reaching across the map, he laid his hand over hers, feeling the coolness of her skin and the fire behind her eyes. He tightened his grip, his voice coming in a quiet murmur.

“Luna’s flames will stop them before they ever reach the walls.” His grip on her hand grew, as if by force alone he could keep the determination he saw in her from wavering. “I’ll take Sylas myself when he comes through. When he sees the fires, he’ll know what’s waiting for him.”

Claere looked back down at the map, though her hand remained within his. Even a blind man could've seen that strength in her, unwavering, yet something in her silence twisted his own resolve.

“You don’t have to do this, love.” His voice softened, the words almost breaking the silence like a plea. “You owe them nothing—not after what they’ve demanded of you.”

She stilled, her fingers brushing a line on the map that led from Winterfell to the wilds beyond. Her violet gaze lifted, meeting his, and her voice came faint but sharp as a dagger.

“I brought him here, Cregan. If Winterfell burns, it’ll be by my hand, not his.”

He took in her words, feeling both pride and a chill he couldn’t shake. There was no stopping her once she’d spoken like that; he had learned this much. He released a slow breath, his hand still on hers, though his grip softened.

“They’ll protest,” he murmured, almost to himself, knowing the lords would sneer at her volatile dragonblood the minute they caught wind of the fire in her plans.

She smirked, a faint, bitter twist of her mouth. “Then let them protest. Their words have always come cheap in our halls.”

There was nothing left to say; they had both chosen.

His voice was a rough whisper. “And when Sylas comes to the gates, he’ll meet me there. Your fire will bring his men to ruin, and his death will be by my hand.”

Her expression softened then, something flickering in her eyes. She gave a slight nod, the unspoken words holding between them as surely as any vow.

“Then let it be us,” she said, her voice quiet but relentless, “and only us.”

X

Claere’s silhouette merged with the pale light of the oncoming sun, crouched upon Luna’s back. Her silver braid whipped in the frigid wind, streaking across her face as she peered down at the advancing figures below—Sylas’s wildling host, oblivious, like ants on a thread, skittering through the shadows toward Winterfell. Her heart clenched, not only with tension but with a sense of sickened resolve.

Claere took a steadying breath, reaching down to soothe Luna’s scales as the dragon rumbled beneath her, ready, eager, alive with a hunger for the command. This was what she was—she was a weapon of fire and wings.

“Dracarys, Luna,” she whispered, her voice firm, though her mind wavered. Fire, Luna.

Luna inhaled sharply, and the first jet of flame burst forth, tearing through the forest edge. The fire lit up the gloaming, a roar of blistering fury erupting from the dragon’s throat, tearing through trees and flesh alike and consuming everything in its path. The inferno roared so ferociously that Claere flinched, though she held firm, her gaze steeling even as her stomach twisted. Her thoughts churned as she took in the fire’s path below, eyes lingering on the wild devastation.

This wasn’t her—it was Luna, this was her dragon’s fury flowing from her through the fire. She could almost feel her resolve shake as the flames danced in her vision, searing images of charred trees and wildlings scrambling, scattering, disappearing. She repeated the words in her mind like a chant, Luna’s rage, not mine, though she knew even as she said it that it wasn’t entirely true.

Her breath shook as she leaned closer to Luna, coaxing her to move over the battalion attempting to retreat. The dragon’s energy surged as they neared. She stroked Luna’s side, voice soft but firm.

“Lykiri, Luna,” she soothed, her words almost trembling. “Dracarys.” Easy, Luna… fire.

Luna twisted mid-air, exhaling another wave of flame across the retreating soldiers below, sealing off their escape and turning the ground into a seething sea of embers. The dragon’s power coursed through her like a shiver, fierce and foreign, rattling her bones with its wildness.

The fire roared in her ears, and she looked down, on the scattered remains of Sylas’s army, their encroachment on her home, and her family. She watched as the smoke and flames lifted, wrapping Winterfell and Winter Town in a curtain of fiery defence. She took in the devastation below and fought the bile rising in her throat, her mind’s whisper growing weaker.

They came for Winterfell, for her people in Winter Town… they brought this upon themselves.

As the last embers died down, Claere closed her eyes, her voice barely above a murmur as she stared into the inferno, her gaze distant. “Sepār hae Daemon vestās. Lyks māzigon mērī isse perzys, gevie riña,” she whispered. Just as Daemon said. Peace comes only in flame, beautiful girl.

Luna’s fierce eyes glowed with residual heat, the dragon’s heart steadying beneath her. But Claere’s was anything but; her hands trembled as they left Luna’s scales, her mind, her heart now divided as they looked back over the ruins and toward Winterfell, her home now shrouded in the grim peace she had called forth.

X

Sylas barely registered the smoke rising from the treetops before Cregan advanced with a limp, his eyes dark with a calm that promised violence. The distant shadows of smoke from the burning woods curled into the sky, and for the first time, the feral wildling's bravado faltered.

"Looks like your men weren’t prepared for dragonfire, Sylas," Cregan remarked, his voice a low rumble that echoed across the men around him.

Sylas bared his teeth in a sneer, a wild, desperate glint in his eye. “I don’t need an army to take what I came for, Stark,” he spat. Yet his voice held a shake that betrayed him.

Cregan’s smirk was cruel, almost feral. Every step forward held the essence of Winterfell’s legacy, its unbreakable fortitude, a promise to the blood spilt for his land and kin. He swung his sword with controlled precision, matching his enemy's wildness, each clash of their blades filling the cold air with a raw, metallic shriek. Sparks shot out, tracing wild patterns against the snow as Sylas staggered, his strength now fraying against the brutal tempo of Cregan’s attack.

Sylas’s grip tightened, his movements turning frantic. Blood streaked down his hands, his breaths ragged as he swung, his attacks growing wild and uncoordinated. But he kept a cruel, bloodstained smile on his lips as he glanced toward the trees.

“You think this is over, Stark?” he snarled, forcing the words through grit teeth. “I’ve men coming to gut you like a fish. Soon enough, you’ll be choking on your own blood.”

Cregan’s expression hardened, a cold amusement flashing in his gaze. He nodded toward the columns of smoke, his voice barely a whisper.

“What men?”

Sylas’s sneer faded, his face going slack as realization washed over him. The inferno in the woods, swallowing his last line of defence. His final hope, his reinforcements—gone, turned to ash and embers under dragon’s breath.

Sylas’s eyes widened, and he stumbled back, a denial trembling on his lips. “Dragon cunt.”

But there was no more room for mercy here.

Cregan allowed Sylas one desperate reach for his blade, granting him the illusion of a fighting chance. The wildling lunged, his hands flying to the hilt at his hip, but Cregan shifted in one swift motion, letting his own sword slip to his left hand, then right again, like an executioner judging his swing.

The motion left Sylas exposed, caught off balance, and Cregan moved like the crack of thunder, his strikes hitting with unrelenting force. Sylas staggered, his pride and strength reduced to shallow, desperate parries.

Breathless, Sylas raised his sword once more, a final snarl erupting from his throat as he swung—but it was too slow, too obvious. Cregan ducked under the wildling’s strike, pivoting as he brought his blade up in one final, swift arc, the blade sinking deep into the base of Sylas’s neck. Sylas’s eyes widened as he gasped, choking on the blood pooling in his mouth, his strength bleeding out into the frozen ground.

Cregan held the sword steady, watching the fading light in the wildling’s gaze. When Sylas’s body slumped to the ground, he released his grip.

His gaze lifted to the familiar, haunting shadow of Luna as she swept above Winterfell’s walls—a silent harbinger of peace, however fleeting it might be.

Behind him, voices rose in triumphant cheers, the soldiers shouting to the grey, wintry sky.

"The King in the North!"

"The Winter's Queen!"

The chants rang across the battlefield, a victory anthem echoing off the stone walls and into the depths of Winterfell, where blood had been shed to ensure its unyielding hold on the North. And though the men cheered, Cregan’s gaze remained faraway, fixed on the horizon, where the smoke still curled—a reminder of the price paid for peace.

"The King in the North!"

"The Winter's Queen!"

X

As the last echoes of victory faded over the frozen fields, Claere soared above the remnants of battle, Luna’s wings slicing through the northern winds, her shadow vast and ominous against the frosted earth below. She descended with the grace of a winter storm, Luna’s silver scales gleaming under the grey sky, and as they landed near the ragged camp of wildlings, the ground shuddered beneath the dragon’s weight.

The wildlings huddled together, the children clutching their mothers’ legs, the old men narrowing their eyes in defiance mixed with dread. Fear rippled through them, but Claere remained impassive, her gaze steady, unyielding—a reflection of Winterfell’s ancient walls.

Some among the Freefolk, their voices hardened with anger and grief, spat curses and slurs at her, calling her “witch” and “murderous southern cunt,” hatred simmering behind the fire-stoked fear in their eyes.

Claere absorbed the words, her face an unmoving mask.

A single thrumming, ear-splitting roar from Luna stilled the camp, silencing even the most defiant. The great dragon’s eyes glinted like molten gold, her breath thick and hot, and the Freefolk felt the implicit warning in every bone.

Lifting her chin, Claere addressed them, her voice cutting through the cold air, calm and regal.

“All who wish to remain in my land,” Claere proclaimed, her voice resonating like a royal decree, “shall find protection here, beyond the Wall. I shall see that a settlement is forged near the Wall’s garrisons, where you may rebuild your lives, under the laws and traditions of the North. Take this as my utmost mercy.”

Her gaze swept over them, cutting through the crowd like steel, lingering on the wearied lines of their faces and the guarded suspicion in their eyes. “But you are Freefolk still,” she continued, her voice unwavering, regal. “Those who choose to return beyond the Wall may go freely, unscathed, provided you keep the peace in return. Understand that this fate was never one I wished upon your people.”

An uneasy murmur ran through the crowd. Many looked to one another, mistrust mingling with a hesitant hope, and one bold voice called out from the throng, roughened and raw.

“Why?” he demanded. “Why would you even care to cross the Wall? Why bring all this ruin?”

Claere’s expression flickered with a shadow of something unreadable, the barest trace of sorrow or perhaps defiance, but her answer was a mystery as if whispered from deep within.

“There are things beyond the Wall that need no reason,” she said. “I came for what lies beyond choice, beyond blood and oaths. Some things demand to be answered. And it's best they remain that way for some time.”

As Claere’s words hung in the frosted air, a quiet ripple moved through the crowd, each face etched with its own choice. Slowly, some of the Freefolk began to turn, gathering what little they owned, their faces set toward the Wall. They were the ones who would return to the wild, to the life they had always known.

But many others—mothers with children clinging close, the elders with their exhausted eyes fixed upon her—stayed where they were, watching the figure of the dragon queen with something like reverence and fear.

Claere took them in, her gaze softening for a fleeting moment, an acknowledgement of what lay ahead for them, and for her. She gave a single, solemn nod, a gesture that was both promise and farewell, and it was enough.

She gave them no further explanation, only that faint, haunting smile that seemed to come from another world entirely. As she climbed back upon Luna’s back, the great dragon unfurled her wings, her shadow stretching over the encampment. A dragon and a queen united in strength, mystery, and resolve. With a powerful beat, Luna launched them into the sky, and Claere looked down upon the land, her silver hair streaming like her own banner.

Below, the Freefolk watched as the Winter’s Queen disappeared into the northern sky, a figure both terrifying and triumphant, half Targaryen fire and half Stark frost.

The last vision of her was etched in their memories—a queen of two bloods, the very image of winter’s heart and fire’s wrath. A ruler, a legend, her name destined to echo in both hearthside tales and whispered fears for generations to come.

X

I don't know, I feel like I let people down with this. sorry everyone. I really expected more from myself with this.

one more to go, we still have much more to see!

[ taglist: @pearldaisy , @thatkindofgurl , @theadharablack , @cherryheairt , @beingalive1 , @oxymakestheworldgoround , @tigolebittiez , @cosmosnkaz , @lv7867 , @piper570 , @danikasthings , @acsc8 , @justdazzling ] -> thank you for your endless support everyone!

[yandere-daydreams]

Title: Tactile.

A Grab-Bag Commission For The Very Lovely @ohsotearful.

Pairing: Yandere!Wanderer x Reader (Genshin).

Word Count: ~750.

TW: Non-Con, Somnophilia, Stalking, Non-Consensual Touching, and Obsessive Behavior.

This was an old pastime, for him.

The broad strokes remained the same, but the details differed. As Scaramouche, the Balladeer, a glorified weapon for a foreign military waiting to become something he was always promised he would be, he watched you from a distance, passing your stall in the local bazaar when he had time to spare and letting himself into the recesses of your mind while he was still testing the boundaries of his newfound godhood, letting the nights you spent with him fade away like passing thoughts. As a wanderer, a being with no name or history to tie him down, he was more… physical in his approach, more eager to be close to you in the way that even the most insignificant flower strives to grow towards the sun. During the day, he’d trail after you like a lost puppy, desperate for your attention, and at night, he’d slip through your bedroom window, kneel at your bedside, watch the gentle rise and fall of your chest until his eyes stung and he couldn’t stand just to watch, anymore. In that life, he’d been naïve, so unaware of what he was that he couldn’t do anything more than cup your face and feel your warmth sink into his cold, porcelain skin. He hadn’t even thought to kiss you, much less leave a mark. It was all just feather-light touches – little objects of his sentiment you’d barely remember by the time the sun rose. It was all meaningless, and Scaramouche’s daydreams weren’t much better.

As the man he was now, still nameless but not quite so untethered, he’d learned his lesson from Scaramouche’s distance, from the wanderer’s artlessness. Close enough to make contact but not quite so caught up with his own pining that he couldn’t bring himself to touch you – he let his hands drift to your neck as he thrust into you, fingers wrapping loosely around your throat as he drank in the plushness of your delicate, tender skin. In the cold of night, your warmth was more addictive than ever, your body as inviting as it’d always been. Your expression was one of disrupted peace; the tranquility of rest agitated by the feeling of his cock fucking into you at an idle pace. He pressed the heels of his palms into your throat with just enough force to feel your breath hitch, to watch your features scrunch in aimless panic before pulling away, one hand drifting to take hold of your waist and the other finding your chest, nimble fingertips circling around your hardened nipple. You jerked in response, your reaction muted but visible enough. That was something he’d always liked about you: even at a distance, he could always draw something out of you.

Not that he wasn’t satisfied with your closeness. It was a sensation he, even now, wasn’t used to – the softness of your skin as opposed to the stoniness of his, the sharp cuts and awkward bends of his body lying in comparison to your smooth, vague curves. A being crafted by the hands of a god and polished by centuries of unyielding cruelty measured against a creature designed by no one and made to do nothing, where the former always seemed to somehow come up short. If he’d been able to, he would’ve hated you for it. If he’d been just a little stronger, he would’ve hated himself for not.

He let himself slip, rut into your deeper, fuck into you faster, savor the feeling of your wet heat dulling his rougher edges. He wouldn’t let there be a distance between you and him this time, he decided – he wouldn’t dwell in the back of your mind or sneak into your bedroom, wouldn’t find excuses to steal glances at you from the other side of a crowded bazaar or be happy to spend his days basking in your shadow. He’d always be this close to you, always be able to press himself into the elysium that was your meaningless, mortal body. He’d waited long enough for it, sought it out with enough desperation, and in that moment, buried inside you, your scent in his lungs and his affection for you finally delivered without reservation, he couldn’t imagine ever going without you again. He shouldn’t have to. He wouldn’t have to.

He dug his nails into your hip, a wide smile spreading over his lips. He watched with hawk-like attentiveness as your eyes fluttered open, as your expression went from confused to distressed. You started to say something, to scream, but his mouth crashed into yours and he swallowed anything you might’ve said, your voice slipping like milk and honey down his throat. When your protests faded into an incoherent collection of whimpers and sobs, he pulled back, grinning as he finally started to thrust into you properly.

This was an old pastime, but he wasn’t the person he used to be.

Maybe it was time for something to change, after all.

[shelbgrey]

✨POOKIE✨ can you conjure up a fic of the very lovely very handsome very shrexy lip biting man also known as Killian Jones? Get that steamy boat time in his bedroom on the Rolly Joger. He’s a pirate so…😳🫣give that man some rope cause he knows how to tie a knot alright😏 also get that bed tapping. He got accent…a hot as hell accent, get it all deep and raspy then you can sign me the hell up. Man can hook me in numerous ways, I’d thank him🫢😳😏

Smut fic with Killan Jones

Paring: Killian Jones x reader

Summary: Smut with captian hook

Warrings: SMUT, gn!reader, bondage, Dirty talk?, desk sex, unprotected sex, rough-ish sex?, getting it from behind.

MasterList

“what should we do with them Capitan?” a crew member grunted as the 'trespasser' wiggled and struggled in the grasp of the pirate's grasp. Y/n fought, kicking and clawing at the dirty man, and no matter how much it hurt the man he didn't let go.

“take our prisoner to my chambers, then I'll decide what I should do with them” Killian commanded.

The pirate nodded and dragged y/n down to the lower part of the jolly Roger, he tossed y/n into Killian's private part of the ship and grabed some rope. Before they could get to far the pirate forced y/n's arms behind their back and tied their wrist together. Y/n snatched their arms out of his grasp and tired to make a run for it. The pirate just snarled and pushed them back it on the room, locking it so they couldn't escape. Moments later the sounds of boots aproching the room filled their ears. Y/n perked up and tired to think of an escape plane quickly, before the plan could be formed the door flew open revealing a tall handsom pirate with blue eyes and black hair. Y/n looked down at this left hand, It was a hook. They now knew who's ship they were on.

He had a wicked grin as he walked towards y/n. His muscular form, encased in leather armor. He had a look of power in his eyes. “I usually don’t allow trespassers to live, but you’re quite beautiful”

Y/n's had nothing but fire in their eyes, staring at the pirate. They showed no fear. “Whatever you're gonna do, might as well do it… On Second thought why don't you just kill me and get it over with”

Killian leans in, whispering menacingly against their neck sending shivers down their spine. “I can think of a few ways you can convince me to let you live”

Y/n stepped back, standing their ground. The pirate's gaze was intimidating, but they didn't let it show how much it affected them. Y/n stepped back till their body hit a table with a large map on it. Y/n's hands had been tied behind their back from when the crew abducted them, y/n had barely kept their balance when she was bound then thrown in the small room.

Killian chuckled darkly when he saw the daring look in y/n's eyes. Y/n stood their ground watching his every move. Killian moved closer, leaving very little room between them. He had a devilish grin as he stared down at his prisoner. He reached out and ran the side of his hook down y/n’s cheek, tracing the line of their jaw. The metal was cold and intimidating “you've got fire…”

Y/n's heart pounded when the hook that replaced his hand ran cold down their cheek. Y/n had heard too many stories about that hook. They leaned back further against the table, keeping their eyes stony, staring into his eyes. “if your looking for gold I don't have it, I have nothing to offer you”

Killian let out a dark chuckle at y/n's comment, he stepped closer still so that his body was pressed against theirs. His free hand slid around their waist, his rings felt cold against their skin. He pulled y/n's body flush against him. I think we can come to an arrangement…”

“And what is that?” y/n asked, not amused.

Y/n shivered as his hook trailed up their thigh, the metal was cold against the hot skin of their inner thigh. “What do you want, Capitan?”

“I think you know what I want…” Killian chuckled darkly, his lips brushing against their neck, nipping at y/n’s skin, leaving marks. Their cheeks became crimson and their heart raced when his lips and the scruff of his beard brushed against the sensitive skin.

Y/n bit their lip, trying not to show the effect the pirate had on them, Killian grinned at the resistance they had. his eyes were darkening with desire when he stared at them. He ran his free hand through y/n's hair, pulling their head back slightly to expose their neck further. “It seems like you're already starting to fall under my spell…”

“You wish…” Y/n argued back, lying to both him and themself. Their heart was pounding and if their hands weren't still tied, y/n knew deep down they'd be grabbing for any part of him or that leather coat they could reach.

Killian chuckled darkly, leaning in to place a soft kiss on y/n’s neck. He pressed the curved end of his hook against the middle of their collarbone and slowly trailed it down their chest then slipped between their legs. Y/n's breath hitched as he rubbed slow circles against their clothed sex through the thin fabric of their pants. “if you want me to stop I will, you have my word… If not there's no turning back”

y/n shuttered and quickly nodded, their mind working over time and was too cought up in the moment to form a proper awnser. Killian's grin widened as he saw the submission in y/n’s eyes. He leaned in, his lips claiming their's in a fierce kiss that left them breathless. Y/n lost balance momentarily, but the desk that was behind them didn't let the fall happen.

Killian pulled away from their lips, whispering as he stared into their eyes. his hand slipping under their shirt to rub against their bare skin, the cold rings that were wrapped around his fingers made y/n shiver. “turn around, bend over the desk.” He nipped at their bottom lip, demanding there obedience.

y/n didn't understand why they responded so quickly. They leaned forward and pressed a quick soft kiss against his lips before submitting to his command and bending over his desk, her ass and tied wrists now pointing towrds him.

Killian smirked as he watched y/n bend over his desk, their ass on display for him. He walked around to stand behind them, his hard cock pressing against their as through his pants. He Hooked his hook on the part of the rope between y/n's wrists, securing them between the desk and his body. y/n got inpacent and pressed their ass against his hardened erection.

Killian growled, his hands moving to grip y/n's hips roughly. He lifted them up slightly, pushing their legs apart with his own. His other hand came down, slapping against her ass hard enough to sting. “don't move”

A shiver ran down y/n's spine as Killian forced their pants down their thighs. Killian groaned, moving his hand to wrap it around his hard erection. He went slow just to tease as he guiding it towards y/n's wet entrance. Y/n's moans encouraged his fast, rough movements as he thrust forward, pushing into y/n's ass with a groan of satisfaction. “Bloddy hell, your perfect”

His thrusts became more forceful, punctuated by harsh grunts of pleasure. He leaned his arm next to y/n, his free hand gripping the desk tightly for balance. “I'm going to make you scream my name, Love”

y/n pressed their forehead against the wooden table as Killian thrusted roughly, stretching them out. “Killian…” they moaned.

Killian groaned at the noises they made as he continued to fuck y/n from behind. fingers gripped their hip tightly as he pushed forward. His breath was ragged against their neck as his hips pistoned back and forth, driving into y/n with force. Y/n's skin felt like it was on fire and they could no longer control the noises that fell from their lips.

"Hell... You like this, don't you?" His voice was raspy and full of lust. He looped his Hook on the rope that binded y/n's wrists and tugged them up. Their back was pressed against his chest and he captured their mouth in a searing hot kiss. He forced y/n against the desk again, but didn't bend them down like last time just continued to pound into them.

“fuck, feels so good” y/n moaned.

“That's it, moan for me…” Killian's words were lost in a string of curses and moans as he felt himself getting closer to the edge. His thrusts became more erratic, each one hitting y/n's sweet spot perfectly.

“killian!” y/n's moans became higher and more desperate, their heart was pounding and they felt themselves about ready to fall over the edge as the knot in their stomach got tighter. “Damn, I'm close”

Killian panted heavily as he thrust into y/n one final time, his entire body shaking with the force of his orgasm. He held onto y/n tightly, feeling his release pulse through him as he growled out his satisfaction. “Fuck... Fucking perfect…”

feeling Killian's release within them, y/n cried out in pleasure as they came as well, their head fell back in pleasure against killian's shoulder as their whole body shaked with the force of it. As they leaned back against him, their chest heaving up and down as they caught their breath “your so perfect, Love”

Killian gently pulled out of y/n, his cock slippery with their combined fluids. He turned them around, pulling them into a warm embrace. His fingers traced gentle patterns on y/n's back as he kissed their forehead. “I've got you” he whispered as he reached behind them and untied their wrists.

“here, let's get you somewhere more comfortable” he murmured, kissing y/n's forehead again before carrying them over to the small leather couch that was in his room. He laid them down gently, his eyes never leaving their face as he brushed some hair out of her face. His fingers tracing gentle patterns on their cheek before pulling the covers up around them, letting them rest. “your no longer a trespasser… if you decide to stay a bored my ship you can guarantee protection from me and the crew”

Y/n smiled softly, their eyes getting heavy. “I'd like that..”

[filmtv2022]

Our Time Is Limited: Part V

Previous/Next

Pairing: Emperor Geta X Reader & Caracalla x Reader (Platonic - former lover)

Synopsis: Danger abounds as the games turn a new level of brutal. Caracalla's mental state continues to erode, bringing a new level of cruelty to the surface. Faced with his brother's rapid decline and his own tumultuous feelings, Geta falls back into the arms of the only person who makes him feel alive... you!

Warnings: smut, drinking, drug use, unwanted sexual touches, violence, and language.

A/N: I'm so sorry this took so long. My mental health game has been a bit rough lately, but I'm hopeful things are heading in a better direction. As always, any errors are my own! I'm not sure if this is as well proofed as other parts, but I did try my best.

The crowd's roar drowned out the steady lap of water against stone in the distance. In the sea of well-to-do citizens and senators, you stood within the flurry of motion, trying your best to observe while avoiding the prying eyes.  Full of wine and bread, the problems of Rome drifted from the minds of the “loyal” Romans who filled the arena. Their bodies were packed shoulder to shoulder, squeezing tightly into the space, completely focused on the awe-inspiring sight before them. Tucked away from the public, the emperors and their entourage waited for the proper moment to enter. It was here, safely behind the imaginary current of anonymity, that you found yourself eyeing the people whose names were becoming commonplace on the tongues of the lowly. 

General Acacius and Lucilla stood apart from the rest, their heads bowed together conspicuously, a sprig of lavender held to her nose to filter the incessant stink of the arena. The General’s normal stony expression was far more worrisome, his eyes flitting toward Caracalla, who stood deep in conversation with one of the many concubines that had come to warm his bed. Wandering hands caressed any sliver of skin that could be found. The lustful haze that consumed the fiery-headed man was far too lewd for the situation, and yet not a soul dared to interrupt. 

Acacius did not remain glued to Calla for long; soon, he eyed Geta, who found himself wrapped in discussion with Macrinus. Neither of the men seemed particularly happy, but that was not an uncommon sight from Geta. Often, the dull trudge of politics left him unable, or perhaps unwilling, to hide his distaste. The necessary and long separation from yourself only served to fray what remained of his patience. His nerves fired hot with every move you made through the room, wishing to keep you in his sight at all times. The emperor itched to hold you, to disappear into some darkened corner far from the others with time to enjoy your company, and free to touch you as he pleased. 

Planted beside the table overflowing with delicacies, you sipped delicately at your wine, alternating sips with smoke. The smoldering bundle wafted thin trails of Devil’s Breath and Opium. A cloudy film blanketed you, dulling your senses and slowing your thoughts to a crawl. The throb of pain that pulsed low beneath your injured skin was barely recognizable, but you were never freed from it entirely. Bare-faced and dressed in a fearsome gown of brilliant copper, you could feel the weight of the laurels upon your head and the gold upon your wrists and fingers.  Their symbol bestowed upon you an honor you would never deserve.

Having no one else to assess, Acacius and Lucilla’s attention fell to you, meeting the dead, cold stare of your tired eyes. A momentary flash of shock played upon their regal countenances before their masks snapped back into place. You understood the cause of their surprise, and yet you made no move to rip away from it. Instead, you leaned in, holding a deep breath of smoke in your lungs before letting it go slowly, trapping them in the embrace. Waiting… watching for them to make a move that would confirm everything you suspected about the pair. From the corner of your eye, a swift motion caught your attention. Unaware of what he interrupted, Geta stepped in front, holding your elbow tenderly as he spoke. 

“It is nearly time. How are you feeling?” His painted features twisted in concern, seeing the way you held tight to the Devil’s Breath. The embrace was far too intimate for the setting. A wave of anxiety simmered low in your gut before spilling out to the world.

“I am fine.” Your words slurred, the end of one jumbled into the beginning of the next. The slight sway of your frame only reinforced the lie. Geta stepped into you, leaving no space to flee. His free hand found the slope of your waist to keep you upright. 

“Are you sure? You have been… consuming for hours.” The emperor plucked the bundle sharply, dropping it into the metal tray beside you on the table. 

“And? I am perfectly well, Geta. There is nothing you should concern yourself with regarding my well-being”  You quipped, frustrated and barely lucid. “And this is not the place.” 

He understood what you were implying; his hand flew from you quickly and without question. A tiny stride put space between you.  “He’s… asked for you is all.” Geta cleared his throat, giving himself time to think. “Are you okay to go to him? You can say no.” 

“Can I? Really?” You shrugged, reaching for the bunch of still-smoking medicine beside you. “In private is one matter; I know what I have promised you, and I intend to keep that promise, for my heart is with you. But here… in public… that is entirely different. You know what my answer must be.” 

Geta nodded shallowly, knowing the harsh bite of your attitude had little to do with him and everything to do with the pain, emotional and physical, that had been laid upon you by his brother. Free to move away, you wove through the crowd, reaching Calla in a few unbalanced steps. Geta watched with rapt attention as you clung to Caracalla, your grip around his arm forcing the young man to look at you. Your cutting stare ripped through the concubine who had devoured the emperor’s attention before trailing over the rest of the group. Without speaking, the now unwanted and unnecessary people, whose names you had never bothered to learn, began to fade into the background, leaving you as the sole focus. 

Even at a distance, Geta could see how his brother’s illness affected the interaction. Calla floundered between the actions of a child and the desires of a vicious man. He had hoped that the youthful version of his sibling would shine in the light of day, giving you both reprieve, and yet it was clear from the way Caracalla’s hands found your already bruised frame that was not the truth of the matter. His palms raked over you, bunching the luxurious fabric as he brushed over the exposed swell of your breasts. Your spine straightened, your brows pinched together, and your lips pursed, keeping barbarous thoughts from spilling out. Fast as lightning, you snatched his wandering touch, stealing him from crossing a line he so delicately tread upon. 

Geta felt his resolve crumble, the pit in his stomach opened wide, devouring the last of his patience. There was nothing to be done, no fight to be had, for he knew without question that there was no choice. The facade of peace and cohesive leadership had to remain unbroken, not only for the sake of those he cared for most but for the entirety of Rome. Even with this knowledge, Geta could not stand the idea of you alone with Calla. His fists clenched by his sides as he moved back toward the pair of you. Caracalla noticed Geta’s approach first, calling to him boisterously, drawing far too much attention to the three of you. 

“Brother!” Caracalla shouted, a wide grin thinned his painted lips, and tugged the corners toward his ears. 

Geta forced a matching smile onto his face, hiding his true feelings, but it did not seem to matter. Calla was oblivious to the unfurling depth of what had bloomed between you and Geta. His rough hands traveled over your waist, teasing as he went. 

“It is time, brother, the public awaits.” Geta clapped him on the shoulder, drawing his eyes away from you, but not breaking Calla’s hold. “Let us not stall any longer. May the gods look upon us favorably this day.” 

“Yes, may their will be done.” Caracalla turned back to face you, a flicker of clarity reached his eyes as he caught the marks upon your skin as though he was seeing correctly for the first time that day. He lifted his grip, trailing the tips of his fingers over the jagged sea of bruises and cuts that colored your face and neck. “M’lady… are you…” 

Calla trailed off, clearly unsure of what to say, the thoughts in his addled mind whirring together in a chaotic jumble. An involuntary grimace twisted your face at the sting of him tracing your chin. The shallow hiss that ripped from you was nearly imperceptible in the noise that bounced all around, though he reacted as if he had been burned. His hands fell to his sides, flexing before curling into weak fists. The knot in your chest clenched, forcing you into action at his loss for words. 

“I am ready, my dear.” You cupped his pockmarked cheek, careful to avoid the worst of his wounds. “Let us enjoy this day.” You met him with a watery smile, hoping to ease the tension and keep him focused on the present. 

A radiant smile cracked the worry, lightening the weary look that had overtaken him. The woes of the moment before were swept away in an instant. Fly away, tufts of hair poked out around his crown, prompting you to tuck them into place. The gesture was one of normalcy, hiding the thump of your heart and the weight of Geta’s eyes upon you. He watched with unwavering attention, ready to act in an instant should this moment devolve into something darker. 

“There, now you are ready.” You spoke quietly, keeping the interaction between the three of you. 

Geta and Caracalla looked to each other for strength before moving toward the entrance of their box. Forced to part from you, the brothers stepped in front, leading the way toward their thrones. Free from  Calla’s steady hold, the room began to spin. The buckle of your knees forced you to slow lest you desire to slump upon the ground. Were it not for the anchoring weight of a foreign arm wrapping around your waist, you surely would have tumbled. 

“Careful, M’lady.” General Acacius stood pressed into your side. From this distance, you could see the lines beside his russet eyes, the horror of the years spent in battle crinkling the skin and leaving a brokenness behind. 

“Do not touch me.” You snarled, snatching yourself from his grasp as gracefully as you could manage. The older man stepped back, hands by his shoulders as if to apologize for the intrusion. Behind him, Lucilla looked on, curious and horrified at the way you sneered, your words vile and vicious. 

Seeing the emperors standing at the edge of their box, waving to the crowd, the rest of the room fell into line behind them, including you. Free from the general's hands, you corrected your posture, rolling your shoulders back and lifting your head high. Sunlight gleamed in broken fractals on the shallow waves that clipped against the walls. The roar of raised voices climbed to new heights. Geta sat first, finding you in his peripheral standing just behind Caracalla, who adjusted himself upon the unforgiving stone of his seat. Clutching the throne, you swayed, the drugs having stolen the minuscule amount of energy you begged to keep. Your interaction with the General had done nothing to help the situation. Geta watched in concern, yet again ready to fly to your aid if needed, but it was Caracalla who offered a rescue. 

“Sit,” Caracalla demanded. The genuine worry from before had faded, leaving in its place something fierce and savage.

“There is no place for me,” You reminded gingerly. 

“Sit… with me.” He reached for you, his palm up, and extended for you to take. “As we used to.” 

Your lungs hitched, knowing that the pair of you were barreling toward something that had long since been abandoned, but there was no avoiding it. Taking his offered hand, you walked around to face him. Standing between his legs, Caracalla’s eye flicked over you, obscenely admiring. He grazed over your hips before guiding you to sit upon his lap. His own were spread wide, allowing you to balance upon him, your knees knocking against his opposite thigh. Strong hands wrapped around your body, settling low upon your torso and thigh. 

“In the name of Poseidon, we celebrate the glory of naval war.” The shrill shout of the announcer echoed throughout the arena, drawing the attention of every patron from the lowliest man to the emperors clad in gold and jewels who sat beside and beneath you. Terrified to move for it could bring Caracalla’s explosive nature to the surface, where all eyes could view his loss of control, you stay firmly planted in your spot. What little padding of fat and muscle covered the thick bone of his thigh cut through, shooting thin lines of pain over your flesh, aching and sore. 

“Today, we relive the Battle of Salamis! The Trojans versus the Persians!” The hairless man continued his enthusiasm and elation in direct opposition to the dread that clawed its way up your spine.

Across the vast sea that now filled the Colosseum, gates opened wide, allowing two ships to emerge, their sails flying at full mast. Men clad in leather maneuvered through the waters, expertly running the oars in time with the commands of those who had been thrust into these meaningless positions of power. Flaming arrows soared through the air, finding their marks in not only sails but also in flesh. Moving quick on the wind, flame engulfed the main sail of the blue-hulled ship. Behind you, a sudden movement caught your attention. With what little freedom you had to twist around, you honed in on Lucilla. She clutched tightly to her husband's hand. Her face pinched with concern while General Acacius sat beside her, unreadable. Were it not for the nagging bite of Caracalla’s fingers sinking into the meat of your stomach, you would have most keenly continued to observe.

Soon, the strangled groans of the wounded and dying melded with the crack of oars as they snapped under the pressure of the gladiators’ boat. Blood colored the water with salacious hues of scarlet, leaving behind evidence of the terrifying creatures that floated just below the surface. The young man who’d drawn the attention of Lucilla called orders like a well-trained commander. A heavy black smoke filled the air, billowing thickly and coating your nose and tongue as you breathed. 

The unexpected and violent crash of the two ships snapped you back to the battle unfolding before you. Both Caracalla and Geta sat forward, their focus never wavering. Still seated firmly on his lap, you moved with Calla even as the hand upon your thigh parted the slit in your stola, exposing your bare skin for all to see. The silvery glint of the blade concealed there reflected in the sun. From this new position, you dropped into the space between his legs, your bottom planted on his throne as Caracalla’s strong thighs bracketed your own. Soft fingers traced patterns on your skin, traveling higher and higher. With every inch he rose, you felt the rush of blood in your ears quicken and dread fill your soul. 

"What is this, my love?" He traced the weapon that sat flush with your skin.

“Calla,” you sliced, threading your fingers over the top of his, trying to hold him in place, but failing. 

He continued to work you over. Ignoring your lack of answer, he slipped unchecked to the apex of your thighs as his other hand dug into your abdomen, trapping you against him. Caracalla imprisoned you, your back locked to his chest. The scent of the wine wafted over his tongue with a shrill peel of laughter at the violence erupting in front of him. The press of Calla’s cock growing hard against you sent waves of nausea rolling like high tide. 

“Calla… calla, stop… please,” you cried out at the sting of his grip, but it did nothing. He clawed at you, pinching your skin to the point of pain. You struggled to free yourself from his grasp, fighting for all you were worth to get loose without drawing too much attention. You managed to loosen his grip just as the ships, drifting on the water, slammed into the box, throwing everyone inside off balance. Tumbling back into his arms, you knew the advantage had been lost. The splintering crack of wood reverberated loudly, earning a startled gasp from you. 

From his place beside you, Geta looked sick. The clench of your jaw... the wide draw of your eyes tore at him, pushing him into action. With far to much vigor and no forethought, Geta stood from his throne when the speeding woosh of an arrow flew past, embedding itself into the head of the seat he had just vacated.

Commotion ensued, sending every person to their feet. At the top of his lungs, Geta called the praetorian into action. The heavily armored men clattered into formation, lining the perimeter to prevent the forward progress of the unhinged gladiators.  Shouts followed, bouncing off stone and metal, ringing in your ears. The words were inaudible, dissolving into nothing beyond an incessant garble. 

Caracalla stumbled from behind you, clambering to his feet. He practically vibrated with energy as he tried to haul you into his arms. The lost look in his eyes was too much to bear; his mental faculties had failed him, leaving the emperor unable to move without prompting.  In the flurry of motion, you teetered on the brink of reality. With nothing to keep you steady, your legs gave out, sending you crashing into the stone. The opium and alcohol that flowed through your system blurred the world, smoothing it all into nothingness and throwing you off balance. Weakly, you leaned into the side of the throne, unable to draw up to full height. The sound of your name and Caracalla’s barely registered over the cacophony of noise that filled the arena. 

“Calla, go! I’ve got her!” Geta shouted at his brother, praying he would listen, and by the gods, he did. With a silent nod, Caracalla stumbled, tripping over the steps as he looked back at the pair of you. Caught in the flurry of motion, he disappeared into the protective walls of the arena, leaving Geta to tend to you. Less gently than he intended, he lifted the bulk of your weight while fighting against the panicked flail of your limbs. 

“It’s me… It's me... It’s Geta.” His voice cracked, hands trembling as he guided you swiftly behind the line of guards that had formed to protect the exit.  

Senators and soldiers filled the room, leaving it nearly impossible to locate where Caracalla had ended up in the chaos, but that mattered little to Geta. Free from immediate danger, he held you close, damn any who judged the way he shielded you from view. Your back pressed against the cool marble, soothing your burning skin and dulling the erratic flow of energy in your chest. Geta lifted your face to meet his, eyes searching for any sign of fresh injury and finding none. The air shuddered from his lungs at the sight of the tears streaming down your cheeks. 

“Look at me… look-at-me.” Geta brushed over your hair, taming the tousled locks. “Do not fret, they cannot hurt us here.” 

Forgoing words, you leaned into him, your arms wrapped around his ribs, gripping tightly to his back. Geta responded in kind, holding you near and allowing you to hide. You could feel the way he practically quivered with adrenaline. The pair of you lost yourselves in each other. Unbeknownst to you, callous eyes fell upon your intimate embrace. The clever and devious stab of Macrinus’s dark focus narrowed at the familiarity of the embrace. 

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Time meant nothing as the pandemonium calmed throughout the palace. Both Geta and Caracalla had been swept away in frantic meetings, none of which provided anything of use when it came to the question of how the day’s events could have occurred. Drained and weary, the brothers withdrew their advisors, dismissing the Senators to question on their own what would come of it all. The pair had neither the patience nor the energy to continue the unending cycle of arguments. 

Sill seated upon their regal thrones, flashes of memory from the arena played through Geta’s mind. Trying to shake them away, he raked his hands over his painted face. The action did nothing to alleviate the worry; it only served to smear the tattered remains of the coal that rimmed his amber eyes. Anger, devastation, and fear flared in equal measure, leaving behind a crushing exhaustion. Beside him, Caracalla glanced around the cavernous throne room, the reality of the situation not truly settling into his disease-addled mind. His hands rested awkwardly in his lap where he wrung them together with anxious confusion. Geta itched to go to you, petrified of the state he had been forced to leave you in early.

The quiet whisper of Calla’s voice startled Geta, “Hurt.” 

“Of whom do you speak, brother?” Geta questioned, careful to tread the threadbare line of his patience. 

“She...” Caracalla ignored the query, his voice hazy and hoarse, “The marks… they were fresh.” 

Geta hummed in recognition, unsure of how to respond. Calla fell silent once more retreating within himself, his hands playing with the fabric of his robes, plucking at the thread. His head hung low staring at the broad expanse of the marble floor. 

“… I cannot-” A choking trill of emotion broke Caracalla’s thought.  As he always had before, Geta rushed to his side, kneeling to meet his eyes. Reaching for Calla’s trembling hands and holding them lightly in his own, it struck Geta just how much had changed, and yet, in meeting his brother’s distant gaze, it was as though he was sitting with a long-gone version of the boy he had grown side-by-side with. Caracalla rocked in his seat, his mind trapped in a far-away place, circling with visions of you.

“There is nothing to fear.” The sick twist of fate churned his stomach as he waited for some sign that his brother had understood. This was never how life was meant to be, and still, he was reassuring the man who’d been with him since the womb… the man who had become the reason for his worst nightmares unfolding in real time… the man who he’d give anything to save from the precipice of doom over which he dangled. A shallow nod of Caracalla’s head was enough, allowing Geta to stand, pulling his brother with him. 

“Come, let us put this day to rest. The gods have blessed us with the opportunity for another.” The pair drifted through the halls quietly, not needing to speak. An extra set of guards watched the entrance to Caracalla’s chambers, greeting the emperors with emotionless faces. The soldiers parted and allowed them to enter without question. Once inside, Dundus screeched, both elated at his master’s presence and annoyed by the lateness of the hour. Hearing the childlike call of his tiny companion, Calla made his way to the table upon which he was perched. The monkey gracefully hopped onto his shoulder, plucking at his copper locks as Calla stroked his fur. Geta remained near the door, waiting restlessly for the perfect opportunity to leave, his thoughts returning to you over and over again. 

“I must go to her… tend to her wounds,” Caracalla spoke, putting on a facade of surety even as the petite creature climbed over his shoulders, mussing his already disheveled hair.  His words were in stunning opposition to his rumpled appearance. 

Knowing that it would cause nothing but pain, Geta crossed the room in swift strides to speak with Calla, “You look weary, brother. Let me take care of her tonight so that you may rest and return to her side fresh and ready for a new day. Allow me to do that for you. I know how you feel for her.” 

Caracalla stood soundless for a moment, contemplating the offer he had just received, “You will treat her kindly? She is strong but there is a sadness within in her that never seems to fade.” 

“I will… and I know. I see it too.” Geta’s broad palm came to rest on his brother’s shoulder, encouraging him to acquiesce. This instance of clarity hit him straight in the chest, twisting like a blade.

“For tonight.” Caracalla nodded, giving Geta permission to go to you. 

“For tonight.” Geta’s parroted reply was tender and shattered. His hand slipped from his brother, allowing him to move further into the room and toward the bed. He watched as Calla approached the side, haphazardly tugging at his clothing. The garments fell from his lithe frame, pooling on the floor in a messy heap.

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Minutes slipped into hours, painting the clouded sky in rich amber and golden yellow hues. Pandemonium had erupted through the palace upon the emperors’ return. The reverberation of raised voices and heavy footfalls had times perfectly with Geta’s rushed request to his guards that you were to return safely to his chambers. With Caracalla still lost in his own reality, Geta’s more than forward behavior toward you had gone unnoticed despite his bold demands. 

Left alone in Geta’s bed chamber, you found yourself buzzing with adrenaline, your nerves frayed not only from the blatant attack on the emperors’, but also Caracalla’s behavior. A small plate of food and a hefty portion of wine had been delivered for your benefit, but only the wine had been touched. Glass after glass had been consumed, leaving the crystal vessel empty upon the table, only the smallest dribble of red clung to its transparent sides. Satisfied and warmed to the core, your skin radiated heat, making the unending layers of your stola more grating by the minute. You chased relief, sliding the pins from your shoulders and letting the heavy fabric fall to the floor. You stepped out of the pile the moment it was free from your body. Only the sea of jewels you’d donned that morning remained to decorate your frame. 

A cool breeze drifted through the room, fluttering the delicate curtains that kept the innermost space of the emperor from prying eyes. Still thrumming, sweat slid down the length of your spine, punctuating just how over-warm you had become. There was part of you that knew it would be proper to search for a cover, though you could not be bothered to care. It was intimate, being like this, wholly bare to the world inside of a space that belonged to Geta. It was as if you could feel his eyes on you from afar, his presence having shaped everything that inhabited this room, including yourself. 

The many glasses of wine had worked their charm, dulling the pit that had developed in your stomach to something more manageable. With Geta’s return nowhere in sight, you found yourself continuing to part with the necessary pains of life in the public eye. Carefully, you pulled the pins from your hair, letting your locks fall loose from their intricate prison, the tension easing along your scalp with each one you were able to find. Next came the jewelry and your blade. The weight of the precious gems and solid metal felt ominous against your skin. Each ring that was slipped from your fingers and bracelet from your wrists freed you from the terror of the day just a bit more. But it was the necklace that held the most baggage. 

Your fingertips brushed along the gold chain, feeling the fragile nature of its beauty. The metal was warm to the touch, the heat of your body making it one with you. Were it not for the slight rush of pain that lanced upon the column of your neck, it would have been easy to forget entirely what had transpired in the previous days. Aware of that returning ache, you felt yourself begin to succumb to it all. The throb along your cheek and chin, the weary burn of your muscles from fighting against Caracalla’s imposing touch, the harsh pound in your temples from overconsumption… it was suffocating. 

The low sound of quick breathing filled the chamber, echoing quietly in your ears. Your instinct was to run, to flee from the impending doom that surrounded you as shadows filtered in through the swaying curtains. Dusk had crept in, replacing the comforting glow of the sun with the murky terror of the dark. Soon, the room would be shrouded in inky blackness, allowing the truth of everything to wrap like a noose around the neck of one condemned to an eternity of fire. 

The fever-like heat that had radiated off of you earlier no longer existed. A bone-deep chill had settled in his place, demanding to be noticed. Quickly, you searched for something other than your sweat-soaked stola to cover yourself. A discarded robe of Geta’s sat slung over the back of his chair in front of the vanity. With cautious steps, you approached your ears and eyes on swivel, waiting for some sign of unwelcome visitors. You found no hint of interruption. 

A few more strides, and you finally took the crumpled robe in your hands and brought it to your nose. A deep inhale flooded your senses with him. The soft scent of wine and lavender clung to the garment. Each breath slowed the pounding of your heart and quieted your brain. There was no logic or reason in it, but even the simple action of breathing, Geta was ubiquitous. His presence was in all things, and for that, you were grateful. 

The gentle breeze that moved through the chamber picked up, battering your skin and sending gooseflesh over every inch. Standing there, behind his dressing chair, you risked a glance in the mirror. The marks were no less shocking, and the utter exhaustion behind your eyes was painfully clear, but there was something else in your reflection. What it was eluded you, but there was no doubt that the woman looking back was nothing like you had imagined. Your future, a piece of you that had once seemed so certain, made you ill at the very thought. There had been life before Geta, a life before the aristocracy of Rome had become your playground, but you were certain there would be nothing after him. The pair of you were linked together not simply at the heart, but at the soul. Where he went, so would you. What fate befell him… so too would you follow. You knew it was dangerous to feel this way about the man whose life barely belonged to him, yet it was immutable. A truth so powerful even the gods could not deny the bond they had woven together so intricately. 

In a fluid motion, you donned the robe, protecting yourself from the elements and soothing your worry for him just enough to let you breathe. The chilled marble floor was cool against your bare feet, tempting you closer to the comfort of the bed. It took no effort to make your way to its side and slip beneath the covers. Your back screamed for relief, and you listened readily, lying deep into the pillows and burying yourself in the sheets. 

The heavy pull of exhaustion clouded your vision, blurring the room to nothing more than a memory behind your fluttering lids. Sleep fell upon you like a weight, holding you down onto the mattress as it curled around your limbs. Only the constant stream of harried thoughts that crash through your fatigued mind kept you from reaching the peaceful slumber your body so desperately craved. Fitful dreams overtook you, trapping you in their harrowing embrace. 

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Satisfied that Caracalla was secure in his chamber, Geta made his way back into the hall. The quiet echo of his sandaled feet accompanied him with every step. Wood creaked against the swing of his chamber door opening wide. The dark of night had settled into every nook and cranny, leaving only the grayish glow of the moon. Its radiance highlighted the outline of your delicate frame, shrouding most of it from plain view. Hidden under the plush expanse of covers atop the bed, he watched the rhythmic rise and fall of your chest. The furrowed tug of your brows gave away the restless nature of your sleep. A chilled breeze drifted through the open doors across the vast room, fluttering the curtains beautifully and sending gooseflesh running over his skin. 

With great care to be quiet, Geta crossed to the vanity where he eased his tired body into the plush chair. Slipping the rings from his fingers and the jewels from his neck, Geta laid them neatly on the counter. A fresh cloth sat beside the olive oil he used to remove the pale makeup he donned as a mask, shielding him from the ever-present eyes of the public. Each swipe of the oiled rag restored more of the true man, erasing the cruel and calculating facade he had been forced to wear without question for so many years. 

Free from those chains, he toyed with the edges of his clothing. Half of him was preoccupied with the chaos that had unfolded in the arena, and with his brother. The rest remained fixated upon you. Flashes of your body pressed against Calla’s as he made a scene of handling your body turned his stomach. Dignity and propriety had been thrown away for base desires. The mere memory of it froze him in place. Geta’s hand ran harshly over his countenance, leaving the skin red. Questions of tomorrow came at him rapidly, each one more pressing and complicated than the last. Lost in thought, his face buried in his hand, the emperor jolted at the mellow brush of your fingers along his shoulders. 

“It is only me, my love.” You whispered to comfort his racing heart. Your lips came to rest upon the back of his head, letting you inhale the fresh scent of him in the flesh. 

Geta reached for you, trapping one of your hands beneath his, as he soaked in the comfort of your reassuring touch. 

“How are you feeling?” He questioned, hoping for an honest answer as the look in your eyes told him all he needed to know. 

“I am better… now that you are here.” You smiled, your breath tickling his scalp with each word. 

Never letting go, you came around his side to stand between his wide-spread thighs. Your palms remained on his shoulders, but now you could meet his tempered gaze. Geta watched you, adjusting minutely to your movement, his concentration never wavered as he hauled you closer. Sturdy arms wrapped around the curve of your hips and waist, bringing you near enough that he could lay his brow upon your stomach. Held to him, your hands wandered over his body before tangling in the silken mass of copper locks that adorned his head. 

Geta, face buried in his robes that clung to your frame, felt wholly secure in the tender embrace. Your body was his anchor even as the rest of the world seemed to slip through his fingers without control. The longer he clung to you, the smoother his breathing became, lungs easy and full with each inhale. Bent low, you placed a kiss on his crown, not only to comfort yourself but to remind him of the truth… that you had no intention of leaving. 

“Geta…” You weren’t sure why you had spoken; words seemed insufficient, but his name was on your tongue before the thought had run its proper course. 

Silence remained, the stillness neither problematic nor uncomfortable. It was clear there was much that needed to be shared. Geta’s fingertips slowly traced over the fabric that covered your hips, toying with the thread until he reached the knot at your front. With skill, he managed to loosen the tie, letting it fall away from your body, but he was not yet satisfied. Free to continue his exploration, the emperor skated along,  flicking them back and exposing you to him. 

His hesitant eyes flicked up, begging for permission to keep going. A shallow nod from you urged him on, his chest filled to the brim with emotion. Geta’s rough lips pressed into your stomach, humming at the way you threaded your fingers through his hair. There was no rush. The world had slowed to a halt, his mouth hot against your skin, insistent and tender. Brush after brush of his bitten lips prickled your skin. Geta tipped his face to look at you, and the sight was glorious. Your eyes were shut, lips parted, allowing tiny gasps to escape. 

Tension melted from his shoulders the longer he sat in your presence, freeing him to pursue exactly what he wanted. Sure hands took you with him as he pushed forward and dropped to his knees, lifting your leg to rest your foot on the now-empty seat. In broad strokes, his palms drift over you from ankle to hip. Curiosity got the better of you. A quick glance down to the man knelt between your thighs was enough to make you shudder.

“What are you-” Your question was cut short by the slip of his tongue along your folds. Geta’s strong hands held the back of your legs, supporting your shaky limbs. A catching groan reverberated through his chest at the taste of you, but it wasn’t nearly enough. The tip of his tongue flicked at your sensitive bundle before sucking it between his lips. The exquisite intrusion of his fingers added to the dizzying spin of sensations.  

The placid mask of sleep that had once colored your features no longer existed, replaced by the raw tug of lust. You tried to breathe through the waves of pleasure that washed over you, but the air caught in your throat. Geta worked diligently to keep you from buckling, all the while never relinquishing his ministrations. Too soon for your liking, you felt yourself reaching the point of no return. With a harsh jerk, you pulled Geta from your body. Staring up at you, arousal coating his lips, he remained silent, terrified that he had crossed some unknown line. 

“Take me to bed, Emperor.” You crooned, your voice low and sultry. The sound of it sent him scrambling to his feet. 

Back at his full height, Geta nipped along the slope of your exposed shoulder, his robes having fallen from their intended place. Even with your senses dulled by exhaustion, he felt you relax into his embrace.  His name tumbled from your lips once more, thick with knowing and adoration. Hearing you call for him, feeling you reach for him, it was far too much for his weak and torn heart. Tears flowed unchecked, dampening your skin as he fought the silent sobs that wracked his body. Geta tucked his face into the crook of your neck, blocking out everything apart from you. The lingering scent of Devil’s Breath clung to you, mixed with the lavender oil that softened your skin. 

“I am here,” you croaked, encouraging him to look at you with gentle pressure under his chin. The feather-light brush of your fingertips grazed over the arch of his cheek, never losing contact as you traced along the column of his neck.  

“I-I could fe-feel it cut the air, an… and his ha-hands- on your b-body.” Geta groaned, his voice was watery and ragged as the memories flooded back, filling his throat and drowning out the last life-giving breath he managed to take. His eyes screwed shut matching the low shutter that zipped through his body at the press of your lips to his neck. There were no words to be spoken that would suffice to soothe the ache that consumed him body and soul. 

Seeking comfort only you could provide and unsure of how to ask for it, Geta clung to you, drawing you closer,  pawing at your hips and waist as he turned and walked you toward the bed. The back of your knees hit the side, forcing you to lie back. With one hand held firmly to the low of your back, he guided you down. The pair of you clumsily shifted further into the sea of jumbled blankets and sheets, your mouths hovering close together as you went. Geta settled his weight between your thighs, his cock heavy against your core. The emperor's brow rested on yours, the heavy pant of his breath fanning over your face. 

“I need- please…” Getra trailed off, choking on the overwhelming presence of you, his lips dropped to mouth at your neck and chest. 

“Take what you wish. It is already yours.” You blessed him with permission, freely giving him everything that you were, are, and could become, for there would never be another to whom you would trust your soul in this way. Swiftly, Geta undressed himself, parting from you just enough to shed his clothing. Grasping at the half curls along the nape of his neck, you gasped as the ghosting brush of his calloused hands drifted down your sides. He moved without hurry, capturing your lips, caressing your tongue, never ceasing his exploration. Tasting, touching… Geta shivered, stealing what he could without causing you harm. 

You chased the gooseflesh as it formed over his skin, running gently along his sides, warming him to the core and adding to the flurry of electricity racing over his nerves. He was aflame, burning with desire and unspoken truths that no words could express. He could think of nothing apart from the way you melded into him, your heel digging into the back of his thigh, fingertips clutching to the round of his ass and shoulder… your body pliable and soft under his desperate grasp. Geta’s whole being shuddered, muscles twitching in dull spasms that moved in time with stifled gasps. The muffled sounds of need were swallowed whole by the plush expanse of your throat, his lips exploring the supple expanse, ghosting over the deepest purple marks that adorned your skin, and wishing away the pain and the memory. 

Desperation and lust clouded your mind, letting only the sensation of him pressed to you fill your mind. The nightmares of past days seemed so distant, allowing you to be present with him, and you needed more. Your own desire etched over your every feature, the sensation of his lips on you, tongue dancing along your sensitive skin. The brush of his calloused fingertips on your core, coating him and you with your own slick as he trailed away from where you wanted him most caused your back to arch. A pitiful whine slipped, telling him exactly how you yearned for his touch. 

Geta could feel you squirm beneath him, searching for more as he took what he pleased as he pleased, and it brought a sly smile over his busy mouth. More than willing to go where you wanted, he began the slow descent, trailing kisses over your chest and stomach as he went. Settled between the plush weight of your thighs, he marked them with soft nips of adoration, leaving only the smallest of marks in his wake. A strong arm held you tightly to him as it wrapped around your leg, while the other continued to tease. 

Collecting your arousal, he couldn’t help but marvel at the way it glimmered on his skin in the dull light. The grayish hue of the night sky filled the chamber, shrouding your face in mystery, but he did not need to see the pull of your brows to know how you felt; your body told him everything. With each tender drag of his fingers through your folds, he taunted, pressing in only to retreat, earning him stirring whimpers. The arch of your back flowed perfectly with your breathy groans, each more sinful than the last. Your thighs quivered with anticipation, happy to accept whatever pleasure Geta was willing to give. 

Left with no space between you, he lapped at your sensitive bud, feeling the way you reacted to the sweep of his tongue and rumble of his throaty hums against your heat. The emperor glanced up at you through hooded eyes and fluttering lashes. He was determined to take more, his body ached with the need to feel you everywhere. Despite his need, Geta did not rush; he lazily worked back up your delicate frame to meet your mouth. He swallowed your restless moan at the taste of you on his tongue before pulling back to look at you. His face was still close, letting his wine-soaked breath drift over your senses as he spoke. 

“Are you sure?” His gaze darted across your features in search of even the minutest hint of regret or fear. The anxiety he had found there at the hands of his brother filled his chest with apprehension. 

“Irrefutably.” The gentle press of your hand to his cheek brought him closer, and he turned to kiss the center of your palm. Feeling you like this, plush thighs wrapped around his waist, pebbled nipples grazing the broad expanse of his bare chest, lungs hitching in time with his… Geta was utterly broken; he was bare and raw for the taking. 

“Let me feel you, Geta.” You pleaded, your voice thin with desperation as you reached for him. The shaky inhale he managed was stripped of his energy at the feel of your hand around his painfully hard member. You traced the vein from base to tip, whimpering at the way he trembled. Impatience finally won over. The emperor replaced your hand with his own as he guided himself into your heat. 

A heady groan slipped as the velvet plush enveloped him. All he could manage were shallow thrusts, the emotion of the day too heavy for more, but it did not matter. Having you here soothed a soul-deep ache that threatened to swallow him whole. The same could be said for you. You held fast, fingers digging sharply into flesh, unwilling to allow even a fraction of space to form between you. 

The roll of his hips was languid, barely leaving you before returning to the comfort of your body. Quiet hitches of ragged breaths were consumed, your lips ghosting over each other with the fluid rock of your bodies. You knew Geta was close to his release as the stutter of his movements became more pronounced with each passing minute. His arms held him weakly, trembling with the effort to continue on. 

“Let go, Geta… please.” You hummed across the shell of his ear. 

And with that plea, Geta gave into what he wanted most. Buried to the hilt, he filled you completely working through the high of his release. Your silken voice met him where he was, drawing him back to reality with each bit of praise.  Neither of you could fathom parting, your bodies were still connected in every way that was possible. 

Weak and boneless, he held you terrified that the cruel reality of the world would steal you in some sick and twisted turn of fate. Geta whispered a near-silent confession, hidden in the bend of your neck, one only meant for the gods. The thoughts jumbled into nothingness, never spoken to completion. There was nothing left to give in that moment, but he needed you to know… to feel the truth of his love. 

As gently as you could, you guided the pair of you onto your sides. The turn pressed his softening cock against the overly sensitive spot deep inside yourself. The hollow thrum of your nerves surged at the feeling, tugging a breathless mewl into existence. Geta responded in kind, hauling your hips flush, his fingertips digging into the flesh of your ass before sliding down to hold the back of your thigh, draping it across his body. Your lower halves tangled, limbs hot and slick with sweat that had started to chill in the drafty space. 

“Here.” You reached behind clumsily drawing the thin mess of sheets over you both. 

Geta’s lips found your shoulder, mouthing a line of fire over and over, even as his hips began to rock into you once more. Exhaustion seeped into every fiber of your being, and yet your need for him never diminished. Desire licked down your spine, settling low in your stomach. You went with him, meeting his motions in equal vigor. The edge of your climax sat just out of reach, and your body was begging to tumble into oblivion. 

A slick sound filled the space between you, your shared arousal, and his spend coating your thighs with every thrust. A low hum vibrated through your chest, morphing into something far less distinguished at the brush of his thumb against your folds. Geta teased, avoiding where you wanted him most. Tired of waiting, you reached between you, clutching his wrist and guiding him higher. 

“Quite impatient, m’lady.” He grinned into your lips, catching them in a messy embrace. At this, he ghosted over your clit, causing you to jerk.

“Hardly… I’ve waited long enough.” You murmured, gripping his wrist harder, earning you a dark chuckle. You pushed his hand away from your clit for just a moment, letting his fingertips drag along your core, feeling the way he stretched you so fully, his own calloused touch grazing along his erection. The lewd rush of feeling where your bodies met was more erotic than he had ever imagined, leaving him unable to comprehend life beyond that moment.

“I let you take what you needed, now where is my reward?” Your response was entirely selfish. In truth, you would have happily continued to give until there was nothing left of yourself. Though there was no judgment from Geta. The emperor was spurred into action, wrenching his hand from you to return to his previous task. The timing of his thrusts matched the swirling of his touch. The band of lust that had drawn tight snapped, sending you careening into oblivion. The world around you went hazy, your vision wobbly, and your voice broken. A desperate moan rebounded off every surface, loud enough to draw unwanted attention if there had been anyone near. Thankfully, only the guard remained outside Geta’s door, and they had heard sounds far more scandalous from his chambers. 

The high slowly faded, leaving you both breathless and weak. With great care, Geta eased himself from you before leaving the warmth of your arms to retrieve a pair of rags. You kept him in sight as he moved across the room and back. By your side once more, he reached between your still quivering thighs, wiping away the evidence of your time together. His gaze roved over your exposed frame, drinking in the sight of you in utter amazement. 

With your skin clean and dry, Geta tossed the used cloth aside but made no move to clean himself; it was as if he was caught in a trance. He sat beside you on the bed, letting the sturdy frame of the headboard hold his weight. The delicate heat of your palm ran the breadth of his chest as you sat up to meet him, tucking yourself into his side.

“Here, allow me.” You could sense the energy that continued to run rampant through him and desired to calm it. With very few tools at your disposal, you reached for the other rag, taking it in your hand before lifting it to his groin. You took your time, passing it gently over his thighs before turning your attention to his manhood. Geta inhaled sharply at your touch, his semi-hard length still an angry red. “I am sorry.” 

“Do not apologize.” He fell quiet, the lines between his brows indicative of deep contemplation. There was much in his eyes, the emotions swirling in a dangerous mix that hid his true feelings. 

“What is that look for?” You took more time than was needed, ensuring no drop of arousal remained on his fine milky skin. 

“It is nothing, my love.” Geta plucked the cloth from your grasp, tossing it into the depths of the shadows. “It is truly time for rest. The woes of the day will still be there when we rise, for now, we sleep.” 

There was nothing more to say. Geta took you in his arms, covering you in his protection as he buried the pair of you beneath a pile of blankets. Warmth radiated, heating the space to a comfortable temperature and lulling you both into a state somewhere between wake and sleep. A sense of peace surrounded you both, blocking out the horrors of the day. Though its shield was merely ornamentation, fragile and thin against the oncoming storm.