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pathologicalreid · 4 months ago

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for the fear of falling apart | part one

after hearing her gunpoint confession, your sister pressures you into airing your grievances at Rossi's wedding

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who? spencer reid x jareau!reader category: angst content warnings: takes place following/during 14x15 "truth or dare", fem!reader, established relationship, mentions roslyn, unresolved conflict, a lot of insecurity, cm violence, i think everyone has a fault in this word count: 2.47k a/n: so this idea popped into my head. i think the concept of spencer dating jj's younger sister is insane and i love it. i hope you like it as well. (i want to write a part two so bad i hate leaving things unresolved). also this is not jj hate that's my girl i loved her even before i loved spencer!!!!

“Please, can you just hear me out?” Your sister pleaded, keeping her voice low so you didn’t take any attention off of the bride and groom.

Bringing your glass to your lips, you shrugged, “I’m not sure this is the right place, Jennifer,” you murmured, looking across the room at your brother-in-law, “I think Will’s looking for you.”

She brushed off your dismissal, “I’ll go over once we figure this out. Let’s go out to the courtyard and talk.”

JJ reached out and gently gripped your elbow, trying to guide you through the French doors of the wedding venue, but you yanked your arm away, crossing your arms in front of your stomach. “It’s rude to leave now, this is a wedding, we’re guests here,” you scolded her, focusing your eyes forward. The ceremony was over, and everyone was mingling, but you refused to be the first to leave. Besides, going home would mean needing to face Spencer – another discussion you didn’t have the energy for.

You knew she hated leaving things unfinished. The both of you could feel the rift between you growing as if the earth was physically shifting beneath your feet. “It would just be for a second,” she urged.

Swallowing thickly, you shook your head, “It’s fifteen years of dirty laundry, Jayg. It’s going to take more than a second to air it out.” You frowned into your newly emptied glass before hauling yourself over to the bar, grateful that she didn’t follow, “Can you make me one of the pink glittery drinks?”

Penelope, the honorary bartender for the evening, nodded reassuringly, taking an already-made beverage from the counter and sliding it over to you, “You look like you could use it,” she observed.

You sighed in concurrence, “You have no idea,” you mumbled as you brought the glass to your lips. The drink itself was a bit of an abomination, so strong that it burnt your nostrils as it went down, “God, that’s strong.”

The technical analyst just laughed, making her way back to the dance floor to meet up with Luke and Matt. Your gaze flickered over other members of the team until you were met with familiar brown eyes.

There had been a ball of dread forming in your stomach ever since you returned from Los Angeles. From where you were standing now, the cut on your boyfriend’s hand that you had preoccupied yourself with seemed inconsequential. You watched him now, in real-time as he glanced between you and your sister, picking up on the tension as you avoided her.

Someone was bound to snap.

Walking away from the bar, you went out into the hallway, finding the nearest door and practically throwing yourself outside. Pulling your hair off the back of your neck with your free hand, you sat down on a moss-covered bench in the courtyard and waited for the cold night air to cool you off.

As expected, you heard the door behind you click. You couldn’t be bothered to look at who it was, if it was important to them, they’d come to you. Sure enough, you remained focused on your drink as Spencer took a seat on the bench next to you, “Aren’t you cold?”

“Alcohol,” you mumbled, “Keeps me warm.”

Not exactly the answer he was going for, but he took it at face value. He was probably more comfortable in his suit than you were in your dress. “Are you feeling alright?”

You thought about lying to him. Telling him that you were just tired, it had been a long week of watching your sister and boyfriend being held hostage in a pawn shop and hunting Everett Lynch on top of your normal caseload, but the thought of holding up that lie just made you feel worse. Taking a large sip of your drink, you took a deep breath before speaking, “Garcia recovered the audio from the CCTV footage inside of the pawn shop. Emily asked me to review the tapes and let her know if I thought there was anything pertinent that should be added to the case files.”

He didn’t respond for a while, knowing exactly what you were getting at but not sure how to further the conversation, “And did you?”

You lifted your glass again, “There wasn’t anything in the tapes that was necessary for the case. I buried the audio files and transcripts and sealed the file.”

“Thank you,” he said, relief evident in his tone.

You, however, frowned at his response, “’Thank you’?” You repeated, an accusation in your voice, “I was scared shitless while the two of you were in there, and all the while my sister was confessing her love for you.”

Spencer was quiet again, rendered speechless by your words. Your description was accurate, if not blunt.

You sniffled, setting your glass down and wrapping your arms around yourself, “I have never felt more humiliated, and no one else can ever know why.” You traced the cobblestones on the ground with your eyes as thoughts continued racing through your head. “God, is this why she pushed us together?”

The door behind you clicked again and you stiffened, closing your eyes when you heard JJ coming out into the courtyard, “Ducky, we need to talk.”

“Don’t fucking call me that,” you snapped at her, standing up and glaring at her. Your childhood nickname rang through your ears. A term of endearment given to you by your oldest sister now grated on your heart, shredding through each chamber. “I do not need to do anything,” you told her, narrowing your gaze.

Tears pricked your eyes, Please, JJ, just give me time to think. I just need a minute. Not everything has to be solved right away.

You were too proud to say the words aloud, but you thought it. You wanted to beg her for time. You wanted to plead with your sister for just a little bit of time to think things through.

She held her hands up in surrender, “I needed to tell Pinkner something that would satisfy him. You know the profile; you know what would’ve happened if I didn’t.”

Yes, and the image of both of them being held at gunpoint would haunt you for years to come, but that still didn’t justify any of it, not to you. Finishing off your drink, you set the crystal glass on the cobblestone bench and faced your sister, “Jennifer,” you said sharply, “Truth or dare?”

Her blue eyes widened as she looked between you and Spencer, who was wisely keeping his mouth shut, “Truth,” she answered, her voice so quiet you could barely hear it.

“Did you mean it?” You asked, the first of your tears finally flooding over your lash line.

You gripped the fabric of your dress in your hands as you waited for her answer, “Yes,” she told you.

Covering your face with your hands, you sighed deeply into them, “Fuck,” you cried. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” you echoed. None of this made sense to you, JJ was married. JJ and Will were the kind of couple that you could look at and you would know that they belonged together, but now she was saying she had been in love with Spencer this whole time.

White hot tears stung the cold skin on your cheeks as you looked back up at your sister, waiting for her to say something else. “We went on an almost date years ago and nothing else ever came of it. Life just went on moving and we…” Her voice trailed off, either unable to finish her thought or unwilling to share.

“You’re married, JJ,” you said desperately, looking at her and wondering if she had told Will where she was going. “Does Will know? Did you tell him you’ve been stringing him along? Thirteen years in and two kids later?”

She faltered for a moment, and you knew you had hit your mark – it made you sick to your stomach. “No, I love him. I love my boys, you know that.”

You nodded numbly, “Yeah, I do, but I can’t keep going if you’re always going to be longing for what might’ve been.”

“You’re drunk and you don’t know what you’re talking about,” she accused, tapping her right foot anxiously.

JJ might’ve grown up in Roslyn’s shadow, but you grew up in hers. Captain of the varsity soccer team, full-ride athletic scholarship at Pitt, and grad school at Georgetown. All leading up to her joining the bureau at twenty-three. You followed her, believing anywhere was better than Pennsylvania, and this is what it had gotten you. It was exhausting, being the one pushing the boulder up the hill, your hands were scraped, and she couldn’t see it.

Deftly, you wiped at the tears beneath your eyes, “I know exactly what I’m saying. Please, can you try and just look at this from my point of view? My big sister, who I’ve looked up to for my whole life, confessed her feelings for my boyfriend. My boyfriend who she set me up with.” Realization dawned on you, turning to face Spencer, “You were in love with her, and… I’m…” your voice trailed off.

Matching your train of thought, Spencer shook his head, reaching a hand out for yours, but you pulled away from him, “No, honey, please. It’s not like that.”

“You couldn’t have her, and I’m just the next best thing,” you told him miserably. “She met Will and got pregnant and got married and you were so in love with her that you took the off-brand version just to have something.”

Spencer shushed you, watching as tears fell from your cheeks, “I’m with you because I love you, not because of anything else.”

Your chest ached, it felt like someone had thrust their hand in the cavity and was squeezing as tightly as they could. You wanted to believe him. You so, so badly wanted to believe him. “Tell me,” you prompted, “tell me I’m not your second choice.”

“You are not my second choice,” he told you, and you watched. You watched for his tells, any sign at all that he was lying.

You shook your head at him, “Why did you lie to me? About the football game,” you asked him, a semi-permanent frown staying on your face.

He furrowed his brows and stood up in front of you, rubbing your arms up and down to keep you warm, “I didn’t lie to you.”

“You didn’t tell me. Neither of you did. That’s lying by omission, and you both know it,” you said, stepping away from him hesitantly. You didn’t know what to trust; you didn’t know what was real.

Spencer looked back at your sister, but she looked frozen, “It wasn’t a date,” he said simply. “I… I intended for it to be a date, but JJ invited Penelope and that was the end of it. I took it as her not being interested and that’s the truth. Nothing else ever happened between the two of us.”

You watched your sister, her mouth opening and closing as she scrounged for the right thing to say. “I said what I had to in order to survive,” she defended.

Sucking on your back molars, you shrugged helplessly in response, “I know,” you admitted. “I know that you probably planned on taking your truth to the grave with you, but… it’s out, Jayg.”

“I can explain everything to you,” she offered, “Please let me explain, Ducky.”

The desperation in her voice chiseled at your resolve, but it wasn’t enough. “I don’t have it in me,” you admitted. “I’m fresh out of fight and I just wanna go home,” you told her, looking at Spencer who nodded, heading back inside to gather your things.

You sat back down on the bench, propping your chin up on your hand.

“I couldn’t think of anything else to say,” she tried again, her voice gruff from holding back tears.

Shaking your head, you closed your eyes and breathed in the cold winter air, “I don’t really care, JJ. You said it, I heard it, and now you have to deal with it.”

She cleared her throat, “I would deal with it now, but you’re being petulant.”

Looking up at her, you frowned, “I told you inside that I didn’t want to talk about this here. You came outside. You sought me out to talk. Now you’re mad that I’m not being nice about it?” Something new bubbled in your stomach, the pit that had been forming there quickly evolved into anger.

“I was trying to save lives,” she tried again, insisting she was right.

You could live with her being right on that front. She was saving lives, and she needed a truth potent enough to sway the UnSub, but in all of her explanations, she never once apologized about this curveball. “I live with Spencer. I… when I give gifts, they’re signed from the both of us,” you told her. “Sometimes when we can’t sleep at night, we come up with baby names, and you’re in love with him. I asked for time, and you couldn’t give it to me. So, this is what you get.”

With Spencer reappearing at the door, you made your way out of the courtyard, he draped your coat over your shoulders, and you wrapped the wool around yourself as you made your way out. “I told Rossi and Krystall that you were tired, but I think they might have taken it as you had too much to drink,” he explained, opening the passenger side door for the car for you to get in.

A small smile tugged at your throat, “I don’t really care.” Maybe if you had gotten that drunk, your chest wouldn’t hurt so much.

The rest of the ride home was silent, small flurries started floating from the sky, and you watched the way they danced in the streetlights. Once you were home, you got ready for bed, grabbing a pillow off of your bed, and turning to the door, “Where are you going?” Spencer asked, returning from brushing his teeth.

“I’m gonna sleep on the couch,” you told him softly, looking at the pillow that you were clutching in your arms.

He faltered for a moment, obviously taken aback by your decision, “Can we talk tomorrow?”

You frowned, letting your eyes lift to his, when it was dark, his eyes took on a certain kind of melancholia. It hurt to look at tonight. “Sure,” you offered weakly, turning around and heading for the couch.

“Are we gonna be okay?” He asked, fear creeping into his voice. Fear of losing you.

Glancing back at him as you lobbed the pillow on the couch, you gave him a gentle smile, “Yeah, Spence, we’ll figure it out. Just not tonight, okay?”

#spencer reid #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid angst #spencer reid fic #spencer reid x reader #criminal minds #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x fem!reader #criminal minds angst #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds fic #criminal minds fanfic #spencer reid fanfic #criminal minds fanfiction #jennifer jareau #jareau!reader #written by margot #ffofa

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ryan-smith-photography · 8 months ago

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Wedding with new parents on the beach at 21 Main Events

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#21 main #baby boy #beach wedding #courtyard #dancing #gazebo #new parents #north myrtle beach #off camera flash #overcast #reception #wedding #wedding family #wedding party

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seafarersdream · 1 month ago

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The Art of Braiding (Cregan Stark x Y/N)

In the harsh, unfamiliar North, Y/N Tully struggles to understand the strange customs that surround her. One of them, however, her new husband Cregan Stark knows all too well—and he’s not above using it to his advantage. The Wolf of the North, as it turns out, has a cheeky side.

*Inspired by the braiding traditions of the Vikings

TW // Strong language and profanities, possessiveness, non-consensual restraint.

“Bloody wind,” Y/N muttered under her breath, tugging her cloak tighter around her shoulders as another frigid gust swept through Winterfell’s courtyard. The North had its own bite, and it wasn’t just the cold. It was in everything—the stone walls, the silence, and even the people.

Especially the people.

Especially Cregan Stark.

Her husband.

That cold bastard. Honorable, sure, but colder than the winds battering against her face.

Y/N blew a strand of hair from her eyes, resisting the urge to curse her luck again. The riverlands were nothing like this. In Riverrun, there was warmth. Rivers that didn’t freeze over in the middle of freaking summer. Men who smiled, told bawdy jokes, laughed loud enough for the gods to hear. Here, everything was different. Even the laughter, when it happened at all, felt muted by the heavy weight of the Northern sky.

But this was her life now. A wife of the North. Lady Stark. By the gods, it was still strange to hear it. She knew the match had been made for peace and alliances—marriage between a Tully and a Stark was good for the realm, or so her father had said. But no one had prepared her for the rest of it. The weather. The silences.

And Cregan himself.

He was unlike any man she had known. Rivermen were warm, boisterous. Cregan was the opposite. He was distant, cold at times, the weight of Winterfell and the North resting on his broad shoulders. But he was fair, she’d give him that. And gods be damned if he wasn’t handsome. He had that Stark look, all strong jaw and piercing eyes. If only he’d smile a little more, maybe she’d feel less like she was wed to a block of ice.

Not that he wasn’t good to her. No, Cregan was kind in his way. Gentle in the nights they shared, even if he was quieter than she liked. He was a man of few words, unlike the men of her home, who’d fill the halls with stories and laughter. Still, he made sure she had everything she needed. He listened, even when he didn’t have much to say.

But gods, she missed warmth.

The sound of footsteps crunching in the snow caught her attention, and she glanced up to see him approaching. Cregan. He walked like he owned the place—because he did, of course—but it was more than that. There was a confidence in him, a certainty in his steps. He didn’t need to announce himself. The wind, the snow, the very stones of Winterfell seemed to bend to his will.

He came up beside her, his breath clouding the cold air. “Still not used to it?” His voice was a low rumble, almost lost to the wind.

Y/N snorted, rubbing her hands together. “Used to it? It’s like a gods-damned frozen hell up here.”

A slight smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, but it was gone as quickly as it had appeared. “You’ll learn. In time.”

She shot him a look. “And when exactly will that be? Because I’ve been waiting for weeks, Cregan, and I’m about ready to march back to the riverlands and throw myself into the water. Ice be damned.”

His brows arched just slightly, amusement flickering in his gray eyes. “The riverlands? You wouldn’t last a day without the North, now.”

Y/N scoffed, turning to him fully. “Oh, don’t flatter yourself, Stark. I was born by water, not ice. I think I’d manage just fine.”

He said nothing, but the smirk returned. Silence fell between them again, but this time it was… different. More comfortable, somehow. She studied him, wondering what was going on in that head of his. He always seemed to have something weighing on him, some unspoken burden of being a leader at such a young age.

Before she could press further, he stepped closer, reaching out. Her breath caught, not because of the cold this time, but because of the unexpected closeness. His hand brushed against her hair, fingers moving with surprising gentleness.

“What are you doing?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Hold still,” he murmured, focused on her hair. His fingers deftly gathered strands, working them with a skill that surprised her.

Y/N’s brow furrowed, confused, but she stayed quiet, feeling the tug and pull as he braided her hair. Her pulse quickened as his fingers brushed against her skin, the sensation at odds with the chill around them. There was an intimacy in the act, in the silence that hung between them. And yet, it was just a braid.

Wasn’t it?

“There,” he said after a moment, stepping back. She reached up instinctively, fingers touching the braid he’d woven. It felt tight, but not uncomfortably so. She had no idea what to make of it. “What… is this?”

Cregan shrugged, that infuriating smirk still lingering on his lips. “Just a braid.”

“Just a braid,” she echoed, unconvinced.

His eyes flickered, something unreadable in their depths. “You’ll see.”

Y/N narrowed her gaze. “What exactly does that mean, Lord Stark?”

But Cregan was already turning, heading toward the main hall without another word. Y/N stood there for a moment, blinking in confusion. Just a braid? She huffed, shaking her head as she followed him inside. Northerners and their damn cryptic ways.

It wasn’t until they entered the hall that Y/N realized something was… off.

Eyes turned toward her. And not the usual fleeting glances. No, these were lingering, assessing stares. Several of the women whispered to each other, and a few of the men gave her respectful nods. She caught the eye of a servant who quickly dipped her head in what almost seemed like… deference?

Gods be good.

“Why is everyone looking at me like that?” she muttered under her breath, shooting a glare at one particularly nosy maid.

Cregan didn’t answer, his lips twitching as though he was trying very hard not to laugh. The bastard was enjoying this.

“What did you do?” she demanded, her voice sharper now.

Finally, he met her gaze, and there was that smirk again. “The braid.”

“What about the bloody braid?”

“It’s… a tradition,” he said, crossing his arms as he leaned against the stone wall. “In the North, braids have meanings. Especially for women.”

Her stomach sank. “What kind of meaning?”

He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a low rumble. “A braid like that? It tells everyone that you’re… claimed.”

Y/N blinked, feeling her face heat despite the cold. “Claimed?” she echoed, her voice rising a pitch. “By whom exactly?”

Cregan’s smirk deepened, and he leaned in, his breath warm against her ear. “By me.”

Her mouth fell open. “You—what?! You did that on purpose? You—sly, stubborn—”

His laughter was a rare, low rumble that warmed the cold space between them. “You’ll get used to it, my lady.”

“Used to it?” Y/N fumed, her cheeks burning as the reality of what he’d done sunk in. “You can’t just—ugh!” She shoved at his chest, but it was like pushing a damn wall. “This is the North, Y/N. My North,” he said, his voice soft but firm. “And you are mine.”

A strange warmth bloomed in her chest, mixing with her frustration. The audacity. The nerve.

And yet…

Y/N's face burned hotter than the hearth fires in the Great Hall as Cregan’s words echoed in her ears: You are mine. Claimed. Oh, she was mortified.

She reached up, fingers fumbling to undo the braid that now seemed to burn against her scalp. “Absolutely not,” she muttered, her nails scraping against the tight weave as she tried to pull it apart. “I am not walking around Winterfell with everyone thinking—"

Before she could finish, Cregan’s hand shot out, closing around her wrist, firm but not rough. “What are you doing?”

She glared at him, teeth clenched. “What does it look like I’m doing? I’m undoing this bloody braid before everyone in this hall assumes I’m some conquered—”

“You’re not,” he cut in, his voice low, but there was an edge to it. “And you won’t undo it.”

Y/N blinked, taken aback by the sudden command in his tone. “Excuse me?”

His eyes were intense, a storm brewing behind the calm gray. “The braid stays.”

She tried to yank her wrist out of his grip, but his hold was iron. Not painful, but resolute. “I didn’t agree to this—this.. this claiming nonsense,” she snapped, feeling a wave of embarrassment creep up her neck as she noticed more eyes turning their way.

Cregan leaned in slightly, his gaze unyielding. “In the North, it’s more than just words. It means something. You’re my wife. And you’ll wear that braid like it.”

Her heart pounded, heat flooding her chest. “I’ll wear what I damn well please—”

“Oi, Lady Stark!”

The loud shout from across the hall made Y/N freeze, her head whipping toward the source. One of the Northern men, a burly soldier with a wild grin on his face, pointed at her braid. “That’s a fine weave, my lady!” he hollered, winking.

The hall erupted into whistles, cheers, and hollers. Several of the men banged their fists on the tables, laughing and calling out words Y/N could barely make out. Some of the women were whispering behind their hands, giggling and exchanging knowing looks.

Y/N felt her face go crimson, her fingers still trapped in her hair, halfway through her attempt to undo the braid.

“Looks like the Warden’s laid his claim!” another man shouted, and more hoots followed.

Her stomach dropped. This was a nightmare. Mother save her, this is worse than a nightmare.

She tried again to pull at the braid, but Cregan’s hand didn’t budge from her wrist. “Cregan, I swear to the gods—”

His voice was maddeningly calm, but there was a cocky edge to it that made her blood boil. “You’ll leave it. And if you somehow forget, remember—we’ve got different gods, love. And mine? They’re backing me up.”

Y/N’s mouth opened to protest, but when she met his eyes, something in her faltered. He wasn’t just being possessive. There was something more there—something ancient, deep-rooted. A tradition that ran through his blood, through the very stones of Winterfell. She wasn’t just in his home. She was part of his world now.

But hell if she’d admit that to him.

“Cregan,” she hissed through clenched teeth, trying once more to yank her wrist free. “Everyone is staring!”

“And?” he asked, with that infuriating smirk still playing on his lips. “Let them.”

Her eyes widened. “You—this isn’t funny! They’re hooting at me like I’m some prize at the fair!”

His grip tightened slightly, not enough to hurt, but enough to make her pause. “You are no prize, Y/N,” he murmured, leaning close enough for his words to be for her ears only. “But you are mine. And in the North, we show it.”

Her breath caught at the warmth in his voice, even as her frustration grew. She had no idea what to say to that. What was she supposed to say? That she didn’t want to be claimed? That she didn’t want him? But the problem was… she did. And that was the most frustrating part.

The hall’s noise only grew louder. Some of the men had started clapping, whistling at them like they were some grand spectacle. Y/N wanted to sink into the stone floors.

“Let go of my wrist, Cregan,” she said, her voice quieter now, though it still carried her annoyance.

“Only if you stop trying to undo it,” he replied, his tone softening.

Y/N glared at him, her lips pressed into a tight line. But the heat of the stares, the teasing from the Northerners, was overwhelming. With a frustrated sigh, she dropped her hands from her hair.

“There,” she grumbled. “Now let go.”

He released her wrist, and immediately she wanted to punch him just a little bit. That cocky bastard.

“Was that so difficult?” he asked, folding his arms across his chest, the corner of his mouth twitching in amusement.

“You know,” she said, her voice low and dangerous, “you’re lucky you’re my husband, or I’d throw you from the Wall.”

He leaned in, that smirk still present but softer now. “I’d like to see you try, wife.”

The word ‘wife’ sent another ripple of warmth through her, and she cursed silently under her breath. Why did it have this effect on her? And why did he have to look at her like that, with those damned Stark eyes, all cold and piercing but somehow still full of heat?

She crossed her arms, trying to hide her embarrassment under a glare. “Don’t expect me to be all smiles and sweet words because you’ve won this little battle, Stark.”

Cregan chuckled softly, his breath warm in the cold hall. “Who said I needed sweet words? You’re a Tully. I’d be disappointed if you weren’t fighting me.”

Despite herself, Y/N felt the smallest hint of a smile tug at her lips. Damn him. He knew exactly how to pull her in, even when she wanted to stay mad.

The cheers and whistles finally started to die down, though the teasing looks from the men and women of Winterfell didn’t. She sighed, looking up at Cregan. “You’re going to owe me for this.”

He raised an eyebrow, feigning innocence. “Owe you?”

“Yes,” she shot back, narrowing her eyes. “For the embarrassment. You’ll owe me.”

Cregan grinned, his cold facade cracking just enough to show the warmth beneath. “Fair enough, wife. I’ll owe you.” He paused, a glint of mischief in his eye. “But that braid stays.”

She rolled her eyes. But a small smile tugged at her lips.

As they finally made their way to the high table, Y/N couldn’t help but glance at the braid once more. The claiming. It was still ridiculous. Still infuriating.

But gods help her… it felt good—brutishly, maddeningly good—to be claimed like this. She was going insane, because part of her didn’t mind it half as much as she pretended to.

A treacherous part of her silently hoped that Cregan would braid her hair again tomorrow. And the day after that. And the next. For as long as they both lived.

#hotd fanfic #hotd fandom #hotd x reader #hotd x y/n #cregan stark x reader #cregan fanfiction #cregan x you #cregan x y/n #cregan x reader #hotd cregan #cregan stark #tom taylor

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princessbellecerise · 2 months ago

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Rotten Soil, Rotten Fruit

Summary ✩ You are Alicent Hightower’s pride and joy. Sweet and innocent, you’re the apple of the Queen’s eye more than her own children are. But how will she react when you slip into the hands of her enemies?

Warnings ✩ Mentions of pregnancy, birth, reader is a very distant relative of Alicent, mentions of religion and sa (but it doesn’t happen), Alicent being bastardphobic

You were not from her womb, but the Queen loved you like a daughter anyways.

You were good, sweet and kind with a gentle heart. Mayhaps the fact that you did not come from her body was the reason you possessed such traits, for you seemed to be everything her children were not, even though she often prayed for them to be.

Maybe it was the fact that you came from her mother’s side, a distant relative but blood no matter how thin it might’ve been. The one that survived the fire wiping out your family, though you had been too young to remember such a thing.

You were a connection and a reminder to a side that Alicent hadn’t known for years. A connection to Lady Alicent—now lost to her—who was sweet and pure once, and now everyday you reminded her of what she had been. You were everything that Alicent wanted and more, and yet, you did not belong to her.

Not forever, anyways.

You were at the age where it was considered necessary for a young lady to wed, but Alicent would be lying if she said that she was ready to give you away. She already had to suffer once in marrying her other sweet daughter to Aegon, and now that the time had come both Viserys and Otto were pushing to do the same for you.

“It is time the girl begins a life of her own, Alicent,” Viserys had said. “She cannot stay under you forever.”

“She must wed now, or risk remaining a spinster. Helaena was wed at three and ten, Y/N is five years past that. It is time, Alicent.” Her father had reminded her. And then he added, “Though I am sure if it were up to you, daughter, keeping Y/N a spinster would most please you.”

And it would’ve. Alicent wasn’t ready to say goodbye. Not again. To watch another person she loved be ripped away and forced to endure a fate like her. It almost as painful watching it happen than it was to experience it herself. Painful to see her girls become nothing more than a womb to spill retched seed into.

Please, not her. Not yet is what she prayed to the Mother every night.

Prayed that you’d be spared if not now, then at least a little longer. Alicent needed time to cope. She needed time to grieve your absence from her as well, but the goddess did not listen.

In fact, it seemed that the Mother loved you more than Alicent herself did, because she was intent on taking you away. Intent on seeing Alicent suffer, as if she hadn’t enough already.

She would’ve forgive the Mother for all of her pain and suffering had it been anyone but him. Had it been anyone except Jacaerys Velaryon that ended up leading you to the fate of motherhood, then Alicent would have rejoiced, truly. Because it would’ve meant that the gods may have been cruel, but at least they didn’t outright hate Alicent.

Be as it may though, all of her fears came to fruitation in the early days of 132 AC.

The Prince Jacaerys and his mother had flown to court on account of defending his younger brother’s claim to Driftmark, a usurpation that Alicent herself had put into motion.

She’d heard the complaints of Vaemond Velaryon and she along with her father agreed that Driftmark needed to go towards someone of his blood. Someone with true Velaryon roots, and not that brood of bastards Rhaenyra had cooked up.

The Princess had decorated them like cakes, putting on the ultimate farce as they pranced around in Velaryon clothes and colors.

Alicnet herself hadn’t been there to greet them upon their arrival to the Red Keep, her own pettiness forbidding her to step foot into that courtyard. But from what she had heard from you, someone she had sent in her place, Rhaenyra had truly outdone herself.

“They all arrived on their dragons and in such nice fashion, too! The patterns on Princess Rhaenyra’s dresses were just beautiful, your grace. And oh, the dragons! They were magnificent, e-especially Prince Jacaerys’ mount,” You had gushed.

Alicent should’ve known then that was something was wrong. The way you looked, the way you smiled when you mentioned Rhaenyra’s spawn didn’t sit right with her even then. She thought it odd how much you stuttered when speaking of Jacaerys but Alicent had just chalked it up to your girlish excitement for new visitors.

Oh how she wished that she hadn’t.

How she wished that she hadn’t been so blind, blinder than her dear husband and son not to notice what was going on in front of her.

Alicent hadn’t even noticed until all of it smacked her in the face. She hadn’t noticed all of the stares, all of the lingering touches and the things that were being done in the shadows.

She was still recovering from the loss and the humiliation of losing Vaemond and Driftmark, all because her husband had decided to crawl out of bed and put himself through immerse pain just to defend Lucerys’ claim.

Alicent had been so distracted by the failure of her plan that she didn’t even know you were seeing the Prince Jacaerys, sneaking behind her back and meeting up with him in secret.

Had she been in her usual state of mind, she would’ve heard the whispers from the maids. Heard about how he’d walk with you in the gardens, show you obvious favor by gifting you flowers and jewels. Alicent had noticed those, but she had assumed that they were from other suitors, not Rhaenyra’s bastard Prince.

You never said otherwise either, and you had many suitors vying for you hand—and for the favor of the Queen. It could’ve come from any one of them but never once did you mention it was him until it was too late. Until one day, you had no choice.

It had been only two moons since the petition when the maids came running to her and told Alicent that you hadn’t bled. Of course, still nursing the fall out from Rhaenyra, Alicent was taken off guard by this new information. This new revelation that included you possibly being in a scandal. After all, everyone knew that missing one’s moon blood was a clear sign of pregnancy, but Alicent hadn’t wanted to believe that at first.

“What are you saying?” She had asked slowly, as though she were a fool that needed it spelled out. “Speak it, and say it plainly Talia. Now.”

Briefly, Alicent was reminded of the time Viserys had uttered the same words, demanding that her Lord father explain what he meant by Rhaenyra being in a pleasure house. Alicent hadn’t understood his willful ignorance then. After all, it did not take a scholar to figure out what her father was trying to say. But now, as she stared at the nervous maid in front of her, she understood Viserys more than she ever had.

What was Talia trying to say, exactly?

“Your Grace, Lady Y/N has not received her moon blood for two months now,” She explained after taking a deep breath. “And furthermore, she has shown signs of…sickness in the mornings. Sore breasts, and her clothes do not not fit her anymore either. Some say…well they say that Lady Y/N has been seen visiting a man late at night. They say…they say that she has been having an affair with the Prince Jacaerys.”

Alicent blinked, and suddenly the Queen found herself standing in your room, staring at the evidence of what Talia had said, or rather, the lack of.

True to her word, there was no blood on your sheets even though the usual date of when you bled had long passed. The sheets were as white as snow, and Alicent could tell by the way they were crumpled they hadn’t been changed, either.

Rage, white hot and blinding, creeped it way into her bones.

“What has happened? Were you raped?” Was Alicent’s immediate thought. She was furious, thinking that he must have taken you in a way that you did not want to warrant something like this.

Alicent would never, ever believe that you would willingly lie with that bastard, so that must’ve been the only explanation. Her sweet girl…Talia had been wrong. It wasn’t an affair at all.

“No! No! I wanted to, I swear it, your grace!”

Alicent didn’t believe you. Even as you blubbered and tried to explain the details of what transpired to this, she didn’t believe that something like this could happen without you being forced. Ignoring your protests that you absolutely weren’t, she felt the heat of a thousand suns coat her voice as she exclaimed, “That bastard! I will have him exiled for this!”

Never before had she spoken a threat with such hatred. Never before had the Queen dared to say such treasons out loud. In all her years, Alicent had never spoken of the Velaryon boy’s parentage in anything but riddles. And even then, it was hushed whispers and jests coated in honey that left her mouth.

Never before had the plain accusation left her lips, wording clear as daylight as she seethed. “I will…I have him hanged! I will feed his body to the dogs myself for what he has done!”

For once, Alicent wanted revenge. She would punish that bastard to the most extreme that she could; make him pay for what he had done to you. Her heart ached as she stared at you.

How could she have been so stupid? How could you have been harmed in a such a way and how had she not even noticed? This was her fault, Alicent thought with horror. With a heavy feeling growing in her chest, she realized that she was too caught up in her own feelings, too caught up in politicking to take care of her domestic affairs.

And now because of her ignorance, because of her greed she had been punished. You had been raped, defiled and disgraced by a monster.

And where was she when you needed her? Where was she when you were taken no doubt against your will, probably terrified as the bastard spawn nipped at your tender flesh.

Alicent felt so sick she could hardly breathe. Had her senses not already been dialed to eleven, she would have missed the way you began to cry harder, shaking your head as you protested,

“Please, your Grace, don’t! You…you can’t! Jacaerys loves me, and he would never. You can’t send him away! You can’t hurt him!” The sound of your wailing was almost enough to make Alicent begin to crumple. In fact, she felt her knees shake as she covered her mouth, pity flooding her veins as she shook her head.

“He told you that? He told you that he loved you after dishonoring you?” She asked in disbelief. Just when she thought that it couldn’t get any worse, her poor girl now defended her defiler and had been told lies about how he truly felt. Words meant to keep you quiet, she had no doubt. Telling you that he loved you so that you wouldn’t see his acts for what they really were.

“Y/N, any man who does such a thing could never love you. To take a maiden by force, and to disgrace you by impregnating you with a bastard is not love. Look at me!”

Alicent wasn’t expecting to see the way you immediately changed. Instead of crying, you became panicked as you shook your head.

“No, no, my babe isn’t a bastard,” You insisted tearfully. “We are married your grace, I swear it upon the Gods themselves! In the Sept of Seven Prince Jacaerys married me and Princess Rhaenyra was our witness. You have to believe me, Queen Alicent! We did everything the right way! He never forced me and he loves me, I swear it!”

Now it felt someone had slapped Alicent across the face. She stared, dumbfounded as you revealed this information and it was like the entire world stopped spinning.

The Queen regent trembled as her knees gave out. She had to take a seat on the edge of your bed to stop herself from collapsing as she became hysterical.

“She knew? Rhaenyra knew about this?” Was all that she could manage to get out. Of course. Of course she should’ve known that Rhaenyra was behind something like this. And not only that, she had sanctioned it, a feat that made Alicent want to throw up.

The entire time that she had hosted Rhaenyra in her home, the entire time that she played nice and allowed her bastards to eat her food, sleep in her beds, Rhaenyra had thrown her hospitality in her face and allowed her son to defile the one good thing Alicent had left.

You, so sweet and kind, who probably did not even understand the things he had done to you, had been ruined. Right under her nose, her only salvation in this world had been stolen away and breeded like some common whore. Married with no ceremony which Alicent wanted to attend. That she had dreamed of having for you ever since you had ended up in her care.

And worse that than, you now carried a child. The trueborn heir to Jacaerys Velaryon. An heir to the Iron Throne.

“You…”

Alicent would’ve rather it had been a bastard. Gods, she could have handled a bastard. She could’ve gotten rid of it, or given it away to save you some shame. But this…harming your trueborn child would be an act of treason.

For all of Alicent misdoings, this was the one where truly, Viserys would have her hanged if she harmed the babe in your belly. There would be no mercy for her. Not this time. And for first time time since she had become Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, Alicent felt really and truly helpless.

All the power in the world couldn’t help her overcome this. It couldn’t save you from being taken from her in quite literally the worst way imaginable. She knew that one day it would happen, but this…for it happen to like this…For you to be stolen by Rhaenyra of all people…

“Oh, my sweet girl.”

She collapsed as you sank to her feet sobbing, allowing you to rest your head on her lap as you cried. Alicent shakily brought a hand up to stroke your head, trying to soothe you even though she herself felt numb.

She couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that Rhaenyra had betrayed her, once again lying straight to her face. But this time her step daughter had done something that could never be undone. Sanctioned a marriage between you and her bastard, witnessed it before all of the Gods and defiled you and the holy temple with such an act.

The sept, the very place where Alicent used to spend time with you, used to take you to pray when all her other children had no taste for it, was tainted by her sins.

We are Targaryen’s, we do not worship the Gods of Westeros Viserys had once told her.

But you did. She did. And it made sense. It made sense why the two of you were the only decent people left in this dishonorable world, and it was because you worshiped the only Gods that taught true honor and decency.

Yes, yes, Alicent had thought for so long that that was the reason her other children were so wicked, as was their father, their sister, and their nephews. They did not answer to the same Gods as you did, did not have the same respect for honor and sacrifice as you both did.

And because of that, because of her unwavering faith, it that meant that as much as she wanted to, as much as she wished that this was all a fairytale and she’d be able to annul this farce of a marriage and free you from the bloody shackles that still had her chained, Alicent couldn’t.

You were now bound to House Targaryen as she was, first by oath and now by order of blood and seed. Just like she was, you were forever a prisoner of this miserable keep, never to leave those who were served but never served themselves.

She wanted to talk to the idiot Septon who had done this. Who had officiated this…this vile farce. When Alicent found out who it was, she’d have their head for it.

But for now, all she could do was take your crying figure into her arms, stroking the cheeks that were drowned with tears. Come morning, she would make sure that they were gone but for now, she let them flow, watching as they ruined her green dress.

“Does he know?” She managed to ask quietly, waiting until you were at least done sobbing to question if Jacaerys, the father of your babe, was even informed. “Does he know what your sins have resulted in? That he has saddled you with a child?”

Alicent wasn’t even when shocked when you nodded your head.

“Yes. He and Princess Rhaenyra both know,” You hiccuped. Once again, the Queen saw red.

Of course. She’d wager that everyone knew expect for her. Every one of them…they had played Alicent for a fool. Pulled the ultimate stunt and now they were no doubt laughing behind her back. That was probably exactly what Rhaenyra wanted. At the moment, the Princess was probably laughing at Alicent, smug that she had once again managed to blindside her.

“Always the fool, aren’t you?” She imagined Rhaenyra saying. And she was right.

“My last living flower. My last sweet tasting fruit. You are now rotted as well,” Alicent grieved. You did not quite understand what she meant, but Alicent did. She understood that she was indeed a fool.

She was a fool to think that anything good could ever grow from her womb, and she was even more foolish to think that you, who was planted in the soil and grown by her love would be any different.

No matter what she did, the outcome was the same. One way or another, her flowers wilted, her sweet fruits decayed. From her womb or from her love, nothing good ever came of a child from Alicent Hightower, and this was only further proof.

Alicent wasn’t sure if she was more angry at Jacaerys or at herself. She wasn’t sure if the guilt she felt was for not protecting you, or because one way or another she knew that this was her fault.

Even if she hadn’t sent you that day out of her own pettiness and all but planted the seeds for this to happen, then it would still be fate that you would end up corrupted.

Alicent had been plagued with the curse of her children turning out that way since Aegon was born. She had passed it from child to child, all the way down to her youngest Daeron and she was a fool to think you, who she loved as her own, could escape it.

For a while, she had truly believed that you had. From the moment you were brought to her, barely a babe of two, and up until now, Alicent thought you escaped the curse.

After all, you were good and you were kind and she had raised you, so that had to mean something, right?

But now Alicent realized that all good things came to an end. Just because it hadn’t happened didn’t mean that it wouldn’t. The Gods had time above all else. They would see to it that every prophecy would become fulfilled; no matter how long it took. And now, everything Alicent had ever feared came to light in that moment.

You were indeed still rotten fruit because you were grown from her rotten soil. How could she expect you to be any different, how could she be so foolish?

She should’ve expected this. She should’ve known since that first conversation that it would happen.

But she had turned an eye and let her hopes blind her. And because of that, you now paid the price of being loved by her.

You too, were now corrupted.

—

Your pregnancy was a miserable thing. You were constantly sick from the day that you told Alicent, always hunched over one bucket or another and miserablly hot.

Alicent remembered that feeling. Remembered how she never felt comfortable, how she always felt like she was burning alive as the fires of her dragon babes licked at her womb. She knew it was the same for you, and she pitied you above all else.

The blood of the dragon ran hot, and it wasn’t easy carrying it. Often times, Alicent would find you indoors, being fanned by the largest that they had or on the days where your body temperature climbed really high, soaking in a bath with cold ice and water.

It was heartbreaking, really, to see how you almost identically suffered as she did, but unlike her you didn’t seem to mind. You were always so happy, so optimistic even when your husband’s devil spawn was burning you alive.

You were never without a smile as you flaunted about the Red Keep, giggling happily with the other young ladies. There was always a hand on the swollen bump that had grown larger than you, another reminder to Alicent that it shouldn’t be there.

It was far too soon for a girl your age to be carrying but of course, no one cared. They were all too occupied and fascinated with the future heir and Queen of Westeros to notice how this pregnancy was slowly killing you—even your so called husband.

He never missed a chance to show how much he loved you and adored the babe growing your swollen belly. But Alicent figured that if it were true, he would’ve slipped you moon tea and saved you from this miserable fate.

Be as it may though, Jacaerys always seemed just as excited as you were, never too far away from his lady wife and his heir. He lingered like a shadow that was meant to consume you, casting you in a shade of darkness that took away from your light.

It always made Alicent sick to see the way he pretended to care about you, as if anyone could ever love you better than she had tried.

Yes, yes, Alicent firmly believed that she was the only one who truly had your best interests at heart, the only one who was there for you, and not the babe. She was the only one that believed that Y/N mattered more, which why when the day came and the spawn in your stomach decided to finally claw its way out of you, Alicent insisted on being in the room.

Nevermind that it was improper for the Queen to do such a thing, or that Rhaenyra was also there.

Alicent would suffer the whispers and the presence of her step daughter if it meant that she could be there, that she could hold your hand as you screamed and cried and labored for a babe that should never have been conceived.

She was there for you as your body stretched, making sure that you were well looked after and comfortable. More than once, she had wiped the sweat from your brow with her own handkerchief, had placed your hair in braids so you wouldn’t tear it out from the pain you were suffering. It hurt Alicent, it really did, as you cried and held onto her like her little girl.

“It’s too much. I can’t…I can’t…” Is what you constantly told the Maesters, and despite their encouragement, only Alicent knew that it was the truth.

Your body was not yet equipped to handle such things, too young and too weak to be bringing a babe into this world. Try as she might have, even Rhaenyra, your good mother as Alicent saltily recalled, could do nothing to soothe your pains. She held your hand and whispered stories of how she’d gone through something similar with Jacaerys, but it didn��t seem to help.

“The pain was the worst thing I’ve ever been through, but I did make it though. As will you sweetling. I promise,” Rhaenyra cooed and Alicent hated her presence even more when she found that she herself could not speak.

She could not offer you the same condolences or reassurance as Rhaenyra did, because with Aegon everything went quickly and without a fuss. Her other children were the same so Alicent herself had nothing to offer you beyond sweet empty words.

She hated Rhaenyra even more for being able to relate to you in such in a way, as it wasn’t her place. I am her mother, Alicent mentally snapped at her. You cannot take that from me as well.

When all was said in done though, she found herself putting away these jealous thoughts when it was time for you to push. Somehow, you had gathered the last of your strength and was able to sit up, squeezing both Rhaenyra and Alicent as the baby crowned.

“My sweet girl. My brave girl. You are doing so well, only a few more,” Alicent encouraged you, and the Queen fully believed that it was her words, not Rhaenyra’s, that gave you the courage finally squeeze the babe out.

“There! It’s a boy, Princess!”

Eveyone in the birthing room laughed and sighed of relief as the babe slipped out. Round faced and squalling, even Alicent was slightly overjoyed when she saw him; a beautiful babe with white hair and all of your features.

Alicent couldn’t even see the babes’ eyes yet, and everything was too fast, too emotional to check. But one thing that she knew for sure was that it was your babe, not his, and that made Alicent’s heart grow fonder than it ever had since she found out that you were with child.

Laughing slightly, the Queen stroked your hair as you sobbed and reached for you babe, getting the pleasure to witness the unbreakable bond of mother and child for the first time.

The two of you, so young and innocent, pressed against one another, bare skin to bare skin as you smiled down at your baby. The squeaking little thing immediately came to hush as his mother’s eyes laid upon him, innocent little creatures observing each other while Rhaenyra stood.

“I will go and bring Jacaerys,” The Princess said, unable to stop smiling as she glanced at her new heir.

Surely, the Princess was more than pleased with herself that the babe had inherited her coloring, but Alicent tried not to think about that. Whatever Rhaenyra felt, whatever the realm saw when they looked at this baby, only Alicent knew that he was yours through and through.

There was no amount of white hair or violet eyes that could take away from the fact that he was yours first. He was your blood, your pain.

As she finally realized this, Alicent decided that she could love this babe after all. He would be hers to spoil, her to protect as much as you used to be but he would not suffer the same fate as you had.

After all, your womb was not hers. It wasn’t stained with the sins of greed and hatred, and your children wouldn’t be born or grown from such things.

Alicent had made a mistake thinking that she would distance herself from the babe, afraid of bringing the same curse upon him by loving him and unwilling to accept anything that resembled that bastard.

But now that she saw how much he looked like you, how much he was you, she saw the truth.

Maybe her womb was rotten. Maybe it was too late for her. But the womb that this babe had come out was not cursed, and a flicker of hope rose in Alicent as she realized there was still a chance for him, and her.

Yes, yes. Perhaps the Gods had not been so cruel after all. Perhaps this too was a test, the final one for Alicent to prove that fate wasn’t inevitable. To prove that her destiny wasn’t to corrupt all innocent creatures in her care, and that she too could help nurture something into being great.

With you, with Healena, with Aemond, Aegon and Daeron she had failed; but not again. Alicent wouldn’t allow this babe to end up like all her children had. She would love him, she would protect him, and in time Alicent Hightower would prove that her love was not rotten.

She would prove that it did not poison everything she touched, but rather, it could be a beacon that one day guided this babe into being someone great.

If she failed, well then maybe her destiny was to never learn from her mistakes.

But as she looked at you, her sweet girl nursing her sweet little babe, Alicent became filled with hope.

She felt the strength that had left her years ago replenish itself. Her head cleared, her mind sharper than it had ever been. With everything in her, she was ready to fight again. To bare her teeth and claw her way to a new destiny.

Because now, she had another innocent to protect. This time for herself. Alicent had gotten it wrong not once, but five times, but this time around would be her redemption. This time around, it would be different. She would be different, and Alicent swore that upon the old Gods and the new.

#house of the dragon #hotd #alicent hightower x reader #alicent hightower #jacaerys velaryon #jacaerys x reader #jacaerys velaryon x reader

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entitled-fangirl · 2 months ago

Text

A brilliant melody.

Cregan Stark x quiet!reader

Summary: Cregan marries a woman who never speaks. When she finally does, he feels his heart melt three times over.

Warnings: SMUT (p in v), talk of abuse, tears

A/n: I've been wanting some kind of cool transitions for my writing. Like instead of the "...", some people have really cool art there. Does anyone know how to do that? I hope that makes sense 😬

Masterlist

..................................................

She was quiet.

Being surrounded by the loud men of the north made her a quiet girl.

Cregan wasn't sure what to do with her.

…

"You're a meek thing, aren't you?" Cregan asked as the two walked the courtyard of Winterfell.

In one day, they'd be wed. Bonded for life.

She only nodded.

She only ever really nodded or shook her head.

He hummed as they continued walking.

Her father had told Cregan of this days before, as if it was a defect that could put a halt to their betrothal plans. Cregan made sure to assure her father that it was not.

After all, she could speak. She just chose not to.

"Winterfell is beautiful in the winter," he began to ramble. "When the snow falls, it covers all of this in its brilliant white. Do you enjoy the snow?"

She considered his question and gave a small nod.

He grinned, "That's my northern girl. Luckily, Winterfell is warm." He noticed the light shiver in her frame. "Perhaps we should go back indoors. Don't want my future bride to freeze before I can place my house cloak upon her shoulders?"

…

True to his word, Cregan managed to place his cloak over her shoulders the very next day. It was a wondrous ceremony filled with many from across the North.

Everyone gawked at the beauty of the new Lady of Winterfell.

But when one-by-one they moved to speak to her, Cregan was quick to deny them.

The two enjoyed the feast after. Seated at a high table, Cregan often leaned over to whisper things to her.

"You look radiant. Like the sun itself."

"I do believe the other lords may be envious that I have captured the most gorgeous woman of Westeros."

"I do wish you'd eat more. You've hardly touched the plate."

It was a strange sight, seeing such a burly brute of a man whisper sweetly to his wife.

"Is something bothering you?"

She shook her head.

Cregan sighed. "I've only known you for a few days, but I do believe I recognize the shaking of one's hands to associate with nerves."

It was true. Her hands shook violently.

"Is it the bedding ceremony?"

She shrugged.

His brows raised and he leaned closer, "You can be honest with me. I… I want you to be honest with me."

The woman looked down at her hands in thought. Finally, she looked back up at him and nodded.

"Aye. I see." Cregan leaned away and rested his elbows on the table, his head in his hands as he rubbed at his forehead. "Then I'll call it off."

He didn't miss the way her brows pulled together.

"The ceremony, lovely. I'll call it off."

…

Not long after, Cregan stood and held his hand out to her. "May I dance with you, dear wife?"

She grabbed his hand with enthusiasm. It seemed she didn't need words, for expressions were enough.

He smiled at her as he lead her to the dance floor.

Cregan was a lousy dancer. Being a northern lord meant there were many more important matters than learning how to properly dance. So, it was put aside.

He knew the steps in truth, and he could lead just fine, his steps were just too harsh, his movements too calculated.

It was just not how he expressed himself.

She, though, was marvelous.

It was as if each step was not one of a practiced art. It was as if it was how she naturally moved.

Cregan was in so much awe that he nearly forgot to continue the lead.

She didn't need words to express herself. Her movements were enough.

He felt as if he was finally seeing her.

And she was beautiful.

The song ended, to Cregan's surprise as he snapped from his thoughts, and the guests clapped for their Lord and Lady of Winterfell.

…

Honoring his word, Cregan forbade the ceremony. No other living creature would be a witness to their consummation but the two of them.

After laying her upon the rich furs upon their bed, he was careful to properly prepare her to take him.

Now, he forced himself to do so slowly, his hips slowly pushed to meet hers as he entered her.

She hissed lightly at the pain, and he swore he heard a small noise come from her throat instinctually.

He began to wonder what her voice sounded like.

Once seated in her fully, he paused to give her a moment to breathe. Her breath was quickened and her hands gripped his biceps as she tried to regain herself.

Cregan placed a light kiss to her lips, basking in the newness of her lips against his, as well as the eagerness she gave back as they did so.

Her hands slid up to cup his cheeks, suddenly gaining confidence.

"Have you adjusted, pretty girl?"

He shifted his hips, not thinking much as he waited for her response.

The sweetest breathy moan left her lips.

Cregan's eyes widened, and he had to stop himself from letting his lust take over then and there.

He tucked his face into her neck, laying heavy kisses along the way. "Easy now. Just tap me to stop."

And with that, he began to move his hips.

Not much came from her lips. She was used to not using her voice, that it almost seemed as if it was more work to use it then stay silent. It was hard for Cregan to tell her feelings, so he often had to tilt his head back up to gauge her reaction by her expressions alone.

He didn't realize how much he spoke in general until he was around her. How someone could happily be so silent, he wasn't sure.

But if the scratching against his back was any measure, he'd say he was pleasing her well.

"You're taking me so pretty."

She practically preened at his praise, her breath catching or escaping each time.

At one point, he pressed his hips firmly to hers, reaching deeper than he had before.

His face found its way to her neck again, her hands pulling at his hair.

But he paused, catching his breath and trying to instill a reaction from her.

Her hands recaptured his hair and pulled again. When he still didn't move, she tried to shift her hips to gain more friction. He was enjoying every second, despite the mere torture it was to not chase his own high.

He pressed a sloppy kiss to her neck, "Patience."

Her motions should have been enough of a reaction for him, but he wanted more. He'd do anything to hear her voice more.

One of his hands moved down to her clit, pressing his thumb down and circling the bundle of nerves.

A small whine came from her throat.

He felt warmth spread across his body, "Needy, aren't you?"

Her hand made a last-ditch effort to pull at his hair. He could hear her barely contained breath in his ear and a small voice.

"…Cregan… please…"

Cregan almost finished then.

Her voice was so soft. So sweet. Hoarse from its lack of use and so breathy.

It was beautiful.

But guilt overshadowed all of that. He shouldn't have pushed her to the point of speaking.

His hand trailed up her body to the bed, preparing himself again. "I won't deny you any longer. I'll give you what you want, sweet girl."

…

She began to speak to him after that.

The times were few and far between, but nonetheless, he never took a single word for granted.

Because she only spoke to him.

She never spoke her mind in full, so Cregan took it upon himself to do it for her.

In meetings, she'd pull at his sleeve, prompting him to instinctually bend his head down towards her to properly hear her soft voice amongst the others. That was how she contributed to meetings: to tell her thoughts to the only one there she trusted. Over time, the men in the meetings caught on, and would pause to hear what the Lady had to say. It was a game of telephone, barely hearing a peep from the woman as she spoke to Cregan, and he voiced it aloud in his own manner.

When they walked through the busy streets of the city, he kept his hand wrapped around hers, promising to give his attention to her when she squeezed it tightly.

Outside of their chambers, their form of communication was touch, often tapping one another gently.

Inside, however, soft exchanges were common. She would only speak calculated thoughts, not one to ramble, but she would talk of her day, her newest book, or questions of things she always wondered about the man.

In turn, he'd respond in the same manner, quieting himself naturally to match her tone as the two gazed into the flames of the fire that warmed the room.

"I wish you'd dance more."

Her head snapped up to him with furrowed brows.

"You're a beautiful dancer. I only wish I could see it more." He leaned against the back of the sofa. "Who taught you?"

"My mother," she spoke softly. "She was wonderful."

He smiled when he noticed the reminiscent look in her eyes at the thought of her mother. He pushed a strand of her hair from her face. "Tell me about her."

She leaned into his touch. "Father mocked me when I wouldn't speak. Said it was shameful. But mother always told me that feelings are expressed by actions rather than words."

"How so?" He absentmindedly asked.

"Men often say that they love their wives, but their actions are rather the opposite."

He hummed as he considered it. "Have I ever made you feel that way?"

"No."

It was the quickest response he'd heard from her. It only fueled his need to know as much as he could. To know her fully.

"Have you always been so quiet?"

As if a switch had been flipped, everything about her quieted.

Her breathing. Her voice. Her expressions. Her thoughts.

Silent.

Whatever had happened had to have been traumatic to instill such a reaction from her.

"Forgive me. That was too forward, even for me to ask-"

"-I don't wish to talk about it today."

He felt relieved that his question hadn't dissolved her trust in him completely.

"Well," he pulled her to him. "When you are ready to speak, I shall listen."

…

The next day, Cregan meticulously planned. And his efforts had paid off.

She walked into the meeting room at the same time she did every week, to see it lacking its usual members.

The table was pushed off to the side, and Cregan stood in its place as he donned a bright smile at the sight of her.

Against the back wall, a few musicians stood with their instruments.

Confusion spread through her and a wave of anxiety as well, prompting her to only stare at him blankly.

He was quick to correct it, stepping forward towards her. "I've excused the council today. I… I wanted to see you dance again."

Once her mind warmed up to the idea, a bright smile came across her face, accepting the hand that he extended to her.

"I must admit, my love," Cregan said as he stepped in time with the music. "I am not a gentle man. But I am trying. For you."

She nodded, not daring to speak her overwhelming thoughts at the moment.

…

After, they sat at the large dining table, the emptiness of it mattering not to the two lovers who sat together at one end.

"My uncle," she stated, breaking the silence.

His head tilted up to meet her gaze, "Hmm?"

Her cheeks turned a slight pink, "You asked how I became so quiet."

Recognition flowed over his face, "Ah. Yes, I did." He sipped his wine and leaned towards her. "Your uncle, then?"

She nodded.

"He was unkind to you?"

She picked at the skin of her fingers, seemingly reliving the moments in her mind.

A battle within herself.

He put a hand on her thigh, "I will not force you to tell me things you do not wish to."

"I do," she insisted. "But I know not how to."

"Begin to speak, and I shall piece it all together."

She took a deep breath. "My uncle hit me when I spoke out of turn. At first, at least. Then… it was whenever I spoke at all."

He felt ice go down his veins and a feeling like a rock going down his throat.

But being such a skittish thing, he knew not to react too harshly.

"When I told my father, he…" her eyes became glassy. "He said he was right for it. That… that a girl was made to only… shut her mouth and open her legs."

He couldn't keep it in anymore. "And you believed them?"

"When I spoke to you for the first time, I feared you'd be the same."

"I bask in the sound of your voice, my girl. I hope that you see that."

A warm tear ran down her cheek as she looked up at him.

"Oh, sweet woman," he cooed as he cupped her cheek. "Do not cry over false words."

When more tears began to fall, he quickly pushed her chair out from the table and pulled her into his lap.

She tucked her face into his neck, melting against him as if she wished to disappear.

He held her close, not caring when his tunic became damp. When he did speak, it was soft and assuring whispers.

Once she caught her breath, she pulled away from him. "Forgive me."

"I don't believe I will."

Her eyes widened, and he realized his mistake in word choice.

"Sweet girl, you've nothing to apologize for. That's all I meant."

She relaxed at that. She reached up and wiped her cheeks with a sniffle. "Actions have always spoke more than words."

He reached up and brushed a stray tear from her cheek. "Have they?" He asked softly.

She felt a smile come to her lips at his touch. "You are different. You could speak or act, and still, I'd only hear a brilliant melody to which I can always trust."

He never felt such love radiate as it did then.

.......................................

Taglist: @misswynters, @cosmosnkaz, @sithapprentice, @kaniromi, @lovemesomevesey, @its-jackie-bb, @8812-342, @thorins-queen-of-erebor, @kingdomzeldaquest @nyxbranwenn, @callsignwidow, @a1lexh-blog, @alyssa-dayne, @ethereal-athalia

#fanfiction #game of thrones x reader #cregan stark x reader #house of the dragon fanfiction #game of thrones fanfiction #game of thrones imagine #cregan stark x y/n #game of thrones x y/n #house of the dragon #cregan stark x you #cregan stark smut #cregan stark imagine #cregan stark fanfic #hotd fanfic #hotd cregan #house of the dragon fanfic #hotd fanfiction

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sourcherryandsprinkles · 3 months ago

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Hi! I hope you are well. I would like to request a Cregan Stark x reader where they’re in the early stages of marriage and are literally having sex everywhere. Like they can be in the stables checking on the horses and start getting freaky or durning dinner causing everyone to clear out of the room or during a hunting trip where they wander off but everyone knows what they’re going to do.

Request: Cregan and his horny wife getting caught. These two will bring a lot of little pups to Winterfell

Warnings: 18+, smut, fingering, semi-public sex, getting caught,

my taglists are here + you can send requests here at any time

—

Whispers at court were traveling the scandalous tell-tales of Lord Stark and his new wife who, since their wedding, seemed to be unable to keep their hands off each other. In the stables, the woods near the glass gardens, Cregan's study, the east corridor and, obviously, their bedchambers. For the prosperity of Winterfell, this was great news. It meant a babe should come soon — an heir.

For the people of the court, the employees, or anyone else who were around the Lord and his lady, it meant hearing and seeing a lot of things they did not wish.

It was mid-afternoon and you were in the stables, brushing your own horse. There were employees who were paid to care for the horses, as your husband often reminded you, but you loved doing it yourself. It helped bond with your horse. Yours was white with a gray spot on her front leg.

Cregan had found you after watching the new men who will accompany him to the Wall this winter train in one of the courtyards. They were training hard, but they were not nearly ready enough for the long winter.

‘’There you are,’’ Cregan said, his light summer cloak over his shoulders.

A small, light smile curved upon your lips as he approached, and you didn't look up from the brush as it continued to move over your horse's coat, running through the fine, white hairs and straightening them. ‘’You should not be surprised, I spend all my afternoons with Moonlight. She is greeted company that the ladies at court.’’

Cregan chuckled, aware of your dislike for the ladies at court. They weren’t terrible company, they simply bored you. Their conversations always revolved around the lords they had their eyes on and the latest gossip.

He snuck up behind you before wrapping his arms around your waist and resting his chin on your shoulder, his breath hot on your neck. Cregan lowered his head, his lips moving towards your ear. ‘’Lucky girl, taking my wife’s time and attention. Maybe I should be jealous,’’ he whispered, a playful tone in his voice.

You paused your brushing, laying your hands on Cregan’s forearms and closing your eyes, enjoying his touch. You chuckled softly. ‘’No need to be jealous. She is great company, but she cannot replace the touch of my husband.’’ You leaned back into him, feeling the heat of his body, your breath hitching as a shiver of desire coursed through you.

Cregan grinned against your ear, his hot breath sending shivers down your spine. He turned you around, pressing you against the nearest wall, his hands firmly on your hips before kissing you deeply and passionately. His tongue lapped the inside of your mouth, the growing erection beneath his breeches pressing against you. A moan left your throat and the brush fell from your grip, forgotten.

You never thought you would be this obsessed with a man — and his cock.

As the kiss carried on, you began working on the laces of his breeches. The faster you’ll get him out, the faster he’ll be inside you.

But before you could slip your hand inside, Cregan grabbed your wrists and pinned them against the wall, his voice low. ‘’You are in such a haste today,’’ he teased, moving his hips to leave a trail of kisses along your neck, sending shivers down your spine.

‘’Can you blame me? You were already gone when I woke this morn,’’ you replied, sounding slightly upset.

‘’Forgive me, my love. Duties stirred me early today.’’ Cregan traveled his free hand down your body until he was able to ruck your skirts up. You shivered slightly as the cool summer air inside the stable brushed your bare cunt. ‘’I hope I can make myself forgiven.’’ He swiped his thick finger between your folds, pulling a moan out of your throat.

As the two of you were lost in each other's touch, you didn’t hear the sound of footsteps entering the stable. And the stable boy did not hear the heavy breaths coming from inside.

He gasped and quickly covered his eyes upon discovering his lord and lady in an intimate position. The pail he was carrying slipped from his hands and fell to the ground — its contents spilling and its metallic clang echoing loudly in the stable.

The sound snapped Cregan his bubble and he quickly retracted his hand from under your skirts, moving to shield you from the stable boy’s view, protecting his lady’s dignity.

‘’F-forgive me, my Lord, my Lady. I did not know you were— I’ll check on the horses later.’’

—

House of the dragon taglist: @khaleesihavilliard @domoron @ididliquorice @lover-of-helios @lover-of-helios @shine101 @tanyaherondale @mikariell95 @serrendiipty @lantsovheiress @gilliananderfuckme @shine101 @tetgod @clayzayden @memeorydotcom @tnu-ree @futuregws @blackravena @winxschester @mysteriouslydelightfulchaos @xxlaynaxx @secretsthathauntus @pilarxxxaguayo @emmavan39 @stargaryenx @erylilly @bbblackmamba @rainedrop97 @dreamer087 @gothicgay14 @ashlatano7567 @superkittywonderland @justaproudslytherpuff @evesolstice @buckysmainhxe @padfootsvixen @scarletmeii @evesolstice @dkathl @kaywsworld @tetgod @padfootsvixen @domoron @weird-addiction @angeliod @xjennyx2 @adaydreamaway08 @mymultiveres @secretsthathauntus @puffycreamcakes @thirsty4nonlivingmen @naty-1001 @katiepie67 @moshpot24x @hc-geralt-23 @lovelynerdytraveler @saturn-sas @zgzgh @sssjuico10 @tabloidteen @timetoten @deekaag @wondxrgurl @aerangi @strmborns @astridyoo15 @daemonslittlebitch @queenbeestuffs @severewobblerlightdragon @agentstarkid @msliz @vane1999-blog @fairyfolkloresposts @todaywasafairytale07 @otomaniac @zgzgzh @thebeardedmoon @golden-library @kikyrizuki @hnslchw @camy85 @winxschester @armstrongscommentsection @withfireandbl00d @randomstory56 @JudgmentDays-Girl @darylandbethfanforever9 @darylandbethfanforever9 @aegonswife @dakotapaigelove @jays-bullshit @blublock404 @Icefyre19 @paulilvsremus @mfedits @aemondwhoresworld @angrybirdxx @YarianyIrizarry @frutiloopslupin @minedofmoria @aleemendoza2425-blog @quinquinquincy @Rosey1981 @maria-reads-everything @eddieslut69 @barnes70stark @baybaybear @prettyduckling22 @Briefwinnerpersonaturtle @darlingcharling-blog @deliaseastar @Wolfgirl-205 @visenyareads @Nanaldy @Lovelywiseprincess @not-neverland06 @newtmyhusb @mikimimic

All and more taglist: @kenqki @hawkegfs @gillybear17 @black-rose-29 @fudge13 @cece05 @laylasbunbunny @gemofthenight @beautyb1ade @mellabella101 @vxnity713 @bisexualgirlsblog @queenofslytherin889 @thatbxtchesblog @softb-tterfly @ethanlandrycanbreakmyheart @xyzstar @graceberman3 @mikeyspinkcup @jackierose902109 @daisydark @laurasdrey @mischieftom @fanatic4niall @peterholland04 @idkwhattonamethisblogs @lexasaurs634 @notasadgirlipromise @zoeynicolas @thejuleshypothesis @multi-fandom-bi-bitch @lexasaurs634 @notasadgirlipromise @thejuleshypothesis @katherinejess @rafesgirlstuff @lafleshlumpeater @iamluminosity Anouk nani-2305 @books0fever @papichulo120627 @qardasngan @ghostlyvoidydragon @M0rgans1nterlud3 @dahlia-blossom21 @Spacexdrago @nhlfs

#cregan stark #cregan stark x reader #cregan fanfiction #cregan x you #cregan stark fanfic #house of the dragon #hotd

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swordgrace · 3 months ago

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𝐓𝐎𝐔𝐂𝐇 𝐎𝐅 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐋𝐘 𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐃.

⠀ཾ༵ 𑁍┆ gwayne hightower x wife!reader.

SYNOPSIS: After your husband returns from Rook’s Rest, mostly unscathed, you are quick to indulge him to make up for lost time.

anonymous request.

{ FORMAT: one-shot — requested by anon.

{ WORD COUNT: 5.1K.

{ WARNINGS: SMUT (mdni), first time writing for gwayne, please be gentle, gwayne is very cunt-struck in this fic, sub-ish gwayne, armor removal descriptions, mild wound tending, making out, both of them are desperate, unprotected sex, p in v sex, bathtub sex, riding (fem on top), handjob, oral sex (fem!rec), hair pulling kink, choking, breast play, cockwarming at the end

{ AUTHOR’S NOTE: I absolutely adore Gwayne and I felt like this was a really good way to warm up and get used to writing for him! I’m really glad that I’m seeing more Gwayne requests, this was ridiculously fun to write! ❤️ Thank you all so much for your love & continued support, it means more to me than you realize!

At the precipice of the gates of the Red Keep, emerald banners flew, embellished with the golden sigil of a dragon — the King’s dragon, laying half-deceased in the Dragonpit and the King himself, ripped apart and scorched beyond recognition.

A horrible thing, to be sure — your sister-by-law had become miserable and despondent when the news of her son’s maiming reached her. Whatever comfort you attempted to offer had been dismissed, but it was commonplace, not that you minded. You understood her desire to be left alone.

It was a cloudy, dismal day, marked by the overcast of gray and gloom, a dour portrait that only seemed furthered by the King’s potential demise. Rook’s Rest was outwardly displayed as some great victory, a vanquishing of Queen Rhaenyra’s forces and her allies.

Yet, the countenance of your Knight Hightower told a different tale altogether.

Becoming betrothed and wed to Ser Gwayne Hightower had been the hallmark of your family’s importance, a union of prosperity to further your standing in the realm, but it meant more to you than that. Gwayne had grown on you with the passage of time, witty and sharp-tongued, a proficient fighter with a calm rationality.

As the gates swung open to welcome those survivors of Rook’s Rest home, you desperately searched for the velveteen tabard and copper mane, wringing your hands together beside the Queen Dowager.

His armor glistened beneath the sheen of clouds, dingy and speckled with cruor and mud, his visage stained in dried crimson and soot. He was so comely and debonair, yet he seemed rather sour when he dismounted from his gelding, swiftly tugging his helmet aside.

Your feet moved before you could summon any logical thought, rushing to him across the Keep’s courtyard and into his expectant embrace. Plate-clad arms held you close as he inhaled a gust of your scent, marigold and honey, just as saccharine as he remembered. “My love.” He sighed, loud enough for only you to hear.

Before you could cage him within your own embrace, he let out a strenuous grunt, attempting to be subtle with the painful noise. “Husband,” It delighted you to see his face again — it had been weeks. “Are you hurt?” You fussed, brows knitting together as you inspected him for any critical wounds.

Gwayne bore the scars of battle beneath, save for the cut upon his lip and bruising around his cheek. His body was undeniably sore, riddled in bruises from falling, muscles aching from wielding a blade and weeks on the road. “You needn’t worry yourself into a stupor, dearest. I will survive.” He sighed.

“You do understand that it will only prompt me to worry more, instead of less.” Begrudgingly, Gwayne decided to let you dote over him — he quite enjoyed the attention whenever you did. “Perhaps we shall draw you a bath, and a proper meal to accompany it.”

Relief settled within his features, knowing that he would be well cared-for. He counted on you to ensure that he was pampered after every conflict — it was a habit you had developed. Despite the dull throbbing that consumed his body, he offered his forearm to you, delighted to have you at his side again.

He was rather captivating in his armor, shimmering and broad, a true Knight of the realm. Despite the tarnish and wear of his plate, he still seemed flawless, as if he were incapable of possessing any imperfections.

The Red Keep loomed overhead as many soldiers fought to lick their wounds, much of it from the angry bite of dragonfire. Gwayne was fortunate to remain mostly unscathed, aside from his pride. He could not stomach another day with Criston Cole, whose overconfidence often felt like a burden.

The sight of men being obliterated into nothing more than ash and bone was a harrowing sight, one that he desperately attempted to purge from his memory. It was good to be here with you, holding you again, giving him a worthwhile distraction.

Gwayne sought the solace and sanctity of your shared chambers within the Keep, but he missed Oldtown above all. Your marital quarters there far outweighed those here in the capital in terms of lavishness and comfort, but whatever lodgings offered to him now, he wouldn’t refuse. A feathered bed and pillow seemed heavenly after weeks of sleeping on rock and coarse rags.

Pale cerulean hues appraised you with a subtle hunger, finding the supple curves of your physique through the sage silk of your gown. Once you were in private corridors, he made his desire known, manifesting it into reality. “I must say, you look rather fetching, my dear.” Gwayne hummed. “Did you know of my return?”

“Perhaps,” Countering his flirtation with a teasing smile of your own, you gently nudged past the set of heavy oaken doors, making your way into your chambers. The servants there acted at your beck and call as you had them prepare a bath. “Perhaps I simply prefer to wear lavish silks each day.”

With a bemused scoff, Gwayne ogled you through half-lidded eyes, and as soon as the doors slammed shut behind you, he coaxed you in for a kiss. His mouth tasted like the bitter sting of copper coupled with brimstone and woodland musk, but you didn’t care in the slightest.

He cared little for prying eyes, desiring to claim your mouth for himself — it had been far too long. Passion and want were interlaced into each stroke of his lips, and you matched his caliber of desire, palms seeking to perch themselves atop his chest.

Gwayne exhaled, savoring your saccharine taste, the insatiable warmth of your pliant mouth. “I missed your mouth, wife,” He groaned, pearlescent teeth greedily capturing your lower lip as he caged you in against him. His blood ran hot even still, the adrenaline of war still lingering, yet you spurred him on. “Perfect as ever.”

“Gwayne,” His eagerness surprised you, but it wasn’t unwelcome, not in the slightest. “What about the servants?” You mumbled, skin crawling with heat as he insistently tugged you closer, auburn brows furrowing together.

A twinge of desperation followed from your Knight-husband, watching as he palmed at the swell of your hips. “What of them?” He murmured, caring little for the wandering eyes of handmaidens. They were like a flock of hens, squabbling after any scrap of gossip. “Surely, you would not deny your husband a kiss.”

“I would, if my husband vexed me.” You were able to both get a rise out of Gwayne and charm him all in the same turn, turning your head at the last moment. His mouth fell against your cheek instead, much to his disgruntlement. You would make it up to him.

Once the servants finished pouring a bath for your husband and preparing a hearty meal that transcended field rations, Gwayne felt as if he could relax, the tension in his shoulders unfurling. He stepped toward the washroom, unceremoniously falling against one of the velvet-cushioned chairs.

The wooden frame groaned in protest, rickety and barely able to bear the weight of his armor. He tossed his head back, finally able to breathe and relax within the sanctuary of his own quarters. No muddied tent above his head or the swaying of trees, no rancorous men, and no Dornishmen to tell him what to do.

With a steady exhale, he began to unfasten the innumerable amount of buckles and straps upon his armor, beginning with his gauntlets and vambraces. His brow remained creased with concentration, strands of copper stresses glued to his temples, lip curled with inklings of mild irritation.

“Would you like help?” You inquired, knowing that Gwayne would be too stubborn to accept it, but you were pleasantly surprised when he became subservient. With an indignant huff, he sat back, sluggishly offering you his body with a low hum.

“If you feel that you must toil over my armor, I suppose you can lend your assistance,” Gwayne prattled on, though his breath hitched slightly when you neared him, standing in between his legs as you went about freeing him. Cerulean hues traced over your form, desperate to see your naked flesh. “Hm.”

His quick tongue and eloquent speech once irked you, but now, it was simply him. You rather enjoyed when he regaled you with his flowery words and streak of arrogance, a haughtiness that seemed to run predominantly within his family.

As you set yourself to the task of unburdening your husband from his armor, Gwayne busied himself with ogling your bosom, jaw tense and tight. A warm coil formed within his stomach, the onset of arousal as he carefully admired you, his enchanting paramour.

Unclasping his cloak, Gwayne shifted enough for you to remove it, neatly folding it into a rectangle as you draped it over the arm of the lounge. “I missed you,” You confessed, knowing that his ego would momentarily swell tenfold — it was simply in his nature. “These past few weeks were rather tense, wrought with strife.”

“Allow me to guess,” Gwayne guffawed, a smirk toying at either corner of his mouth. “Something to do with my nephews, or perhaps my sister.” Admittedly, you were lonely without him — the capital didn’t suit you, nor did any of its hostile inhabitants.

A soft huff of amusement escaped you, but you happened to shake your head, lifting a wet cloth to his lips as you dabbed at the dried blood. “One would think,” With an amiable smile, you rid your husband’s stunning visage of cruor. “I yearned to have my husband by my side, that is all.”

Gwayne’s gaze became soft in your presence, fluttering across your captivating features and gentle smile. Knowing that you missed him happened to evoke some semblance of delight, filling him with a familiar warmth that eased his aching bones.

“I am here now,” He assured, reaching for your hand as he cradled it within his own. Rough lips pressed themselves against your knuckles. “You shall have your husband for as long as you please.”

Stepping inward, your lips moved to bury themselves into his disheveled tresses, presenting him with a kiss. You always feared Gwayne riding off to fight in a war, coming to terms with the painful idea of never seeing him again. “As long as I please? That is forever, then. Cole cannot take you from me again.”

You were an excellent wife, perhaps the best — he had gotten incredibly lucky with you, a rare jewel, resplendent and glittering all for him, something to covet. He watched as you unfastened the leather straps with haste, placing each piece down atop the footlocker at your side.

Gwayne winced when you happened to tug just a touch too hard, body wracked with aches and pains, pale flesh flourishing with the wounds of war. “Gently, wife. I am still needed in one piece.” A low grunt tore past his lips, one that happened to come across as a suppression of mild agony.

Perplexed, you reached for the collar of his gorget, attempting to be as gentle as possible in its removal. It was difficult, given how much he wore — plate and chainmail weren’t exactly comfortable to wear. The relief he felt was visible, scrawled into his handsome features as he reclined into the cushions.

Broad-shouldered and corded with taut muscle, you often found Gwayne to be beautiful in some ways, painfully handsome to behold. When you’d gotten rid of his upper armor, you noticed the battlefield of flourishing bruises littered across his flesh.

The somber, softened stare you’d given him happened to temper his tongue, copper brows beginning to slack, visage contorting into more of a concerned expression. “They do not feel as horrid as they look,” He assured, smoothing his palm across the swell of your hip. “Such is the nature of battle.”

With a tender hand, you lightly traced your fingertips over each bruise, some angered and dark, others lighter in complexion. Gwayne shuddered at your delicate embrace, bluish hues glued to where your hand traveled — over his throat, toward his collarbone, and then cascading across his chest.

“Where does it hurt, my love?” The silky resonance of your voice stroked his mind in a perfect way, one that brought him to heel. Your doting attention happened to subdue him, cock stirring in the confines of his linen breeches.

He often pondered what went on in that beautiful head of yours, the way your mind operated. You were an intelligent woman, thoughtful and poised with a comely grace, becoming of a maiden. Gwayne swallowed the growing lump within his throat, feeling your palm smooth across the plate of his cuisse.

“Here,” He briefly motioned to the series of marks tangled along his collarbone — he was fortunate that it hadn’t been shattered. You stooped inward, mouth carefully hovering above the ugly bruises dotted along his collar, and kissed the injured flesh. “Hm — here.” Gwayne tapped his right pectoral.

You kissed where his hand gestured to, pliant lips akin to a gentle caress as you showered him in your sensual affections. Enraptured, Gwayne watched you, hunger swelling within him, a ravenous gnawing that he felt for you. It burned his loins, filling him with the ache of desire.

If it weren’t for his damned tasses and greaves, he would’ve had you slotted in his lap. Gwayne’s hands tightened around the back of the settee, digits curling into the wooden embellishments. “That’s all?” You murmured, gingerly caressing along his chest, watching as he immediately straightened.

Gwayne grit his teeth together, motioning toward his bruised bicep. “Here,” The soothing softness of your mouth soon followed, filling him with a warm rush of dull ecstasy. You kissed his bicep, peppering your lips upward until they landed atop his shoulder. “Here.” At last, he motioned to his mouth, marred by a cut.

“Here?” With a gentle hum, you smoothed the pad of your thumb against his lower lip, carefully avoiding the cut and any bruising. Gwayne kissed your fingertips, hand still poised against your hip, groping into your pliant curves and soft physique.

“Damnable vixen.” Gwayne muttered, though his cerulean hues oozed with warmth and ardor, a gallant love reserved only for you. It was a loving jab, and he immediately hauled you closer, bringing your mouth to his for a fiery kiss. The honey-sweet embrace of your lips were ambrosial, making his head spin around.

You reached for his auburn tresses, raking your fingers through his mane, kissing him hard and without an ounce of hesitation. His hands lowered themselves to your derrière, sinking into your supple flesh, treating you to the fervor of his hold. A low moan emerged from your throat when he nipped at your lower lip.

Gwayne relented, tongue seeking entrance into the warmth of your mouth, forcing you to part your lips. In a hurried clash, you kissed him again, open-mouthed and deliciously hot. Your stomach began to churn, arousal seeping from your core, slick between your thighs.

“Gwayne,” You whimpered, attempting to catch your breath as he parted from you, licking at his lower lip. “We needn’t carry on if you are hurt.” You insisted, but he scoffed at the notion, gazing at you with bewilderment and a clear dismissal of your concerns.

“Nonsense,” Gwayne countered, clearly feeling his blood sing with lust, bitten by desire. It was a fire that you had so diligently stoked, and now, it needed to be extinguished. “I would suffer through torture unimaginable if it meant I could have you properly.”

With a bemused huff, you pressed your lips against his bruised brow, watching as he stood up, chest bumping into you. The closeness only seemed to intensify, tension crackling between the both of you. “Are you still in-need of assistance?” You hummed, tone indicative of your lascivious wants.

Gwayne’s mouth twitched into the ghost of a smirk, catlike and salacious as he released an exaggerated sigh. “I suppose,” Truthfully, he basked in your affections, even if it was all playful, a steady buildup to more lewd proclivities. He allowed you to do it all as you unfastened his cuisses and tasses, placing them aside. “Perhaps I should take you along to the next conflict. I will have need of your skilled hands, sweet wife.”

Seeing your striking husband in nothing more than his linen smallclothes made you itch with ardor, desire beginning to fester within your heart. His necklace, adorned with his mother’s ring and yours, hung around his throat, relics resting against his sternum.

A battle was certainly no place for a lady, but you digressed, lowering one hand toward the slight bulge in the front of Gwayne’s trousers. “Is that so? I’ve become quite proficient, husband.” A silky purr escaped your lips as you kneaded one hand against his erection.

Seven Hells, you would be his undoing.

With a sharp exhale, Gwayne let out a husky groan near the shell of your ear, hands steadfast atop your hips as you caressed him over his clothes. “Quite proficient, indeed.” He uttered, teeth grazing along your neck as you let your hand slither beneath the coarse linen. The warmth of his cock met your palm, and he shivered.

A breathy sigh escaped you as you bared your neck to him, palm encircled around the base as you dragged your hand from bottom to tip. The pad of your thumb stroked along the head of his cock, causing him to jerk forward into your embrace.

He had sorely missed your touch, the smell of your skin, the plush feeling of your body beneath his capable hands. Gods, if you kept touching him like that, he felt as if he would explode — and so quickly, too. Gwayne refused to resign himself to such a thing.

“I would be delighted if you’d join me,” Gwayne murmured into your neck, lips suckling just beside your jugular. The mark he left flourished, soothed by the lap of his tongue. “Only after I’ve ravished your sweet cunt, of course.” Even crude words sounded so pretty upon his tongue, and you felt your skin crawl with warmth.

A sharp inhale escaped you, anticipation churning within the pit of your stomach as Gwayne found the laces of your gown. You nodded several times over, lips parted as you sought his mouth for a blazing kiss. With dextrous fingers, he tugged on the silken ties, loosening the garment with ease.

The fabric pooled around your feet in a heap, and you hastily kicked it aside, standing in nothing more than a sheer slip. It was nearly translucent, made of a shimmering gossamer that left little to the imagination. Transfixed, Gwayne allowed his hands to travel along your body, kneading and caressing wherever he pleased.

He coaxed you toward the settee he’d been situated in minutes prior, allowing you to sit as he stood above you, hand slipping against your thigh. “Gods, you are divine.” Gwayne sighed, roughened fingertips stroking at your silky skin, like warm velvet. “Lift your skirts for me, dearest.”

Kneeling as a sacrilegious individual would, as if begging for forgiveness within the boughs of a sept, Gwayne sought his peace between your thighs. He observed in quiet rapture as you brought your slip to your hips, revealing your body to him.

Broad shoulders bullied their way between your legs, hands more than happy to have their fill of your haunches. “Gwayne,” You whimpered, feeling him adjust your hips to a proper angle, cunny glistening with a thin sheen of your arousal. “Please, I need your mouth!” Hapless at the talons of your husband, you pleaded with him to taste you.

There was nothing he wanted more in this world than to oblige you, lips pressing all along your legs, mouth steadily finding the apex of your thighs. Gwayne took care in spreading you apart, tongue raking hot embers across your cunt, your taste ambrosial.

A stirring fire of lust roused him, cock twitching within his breeches as he delved deeper into your core. His mouth was a thing of beauty, tongue sluggishly tasting you from your clit to your entrance. Your chest heaved with wanton pants, hands gliding toward his tresses.

Tangled within his copper mane, you coaxed him closer, digits digging at the base of his skull. Gwayne released a groan into your core, hands clamping down on your thighs with an ironclad grasp. Your nectar fell heavy upon his tongue, the sweetest of honey.

Gwayne thoroughly reveled in the feeling of your hands within his hair, hips occasionally stuttering and bucking forward, desperately seeking his mouth. He was attentive, lapping at your cunt with a fervor, allowing his mouth to drift to your clit.

Silk bunched up around your belly, thighs quivering like leaves as you continued to move inward. Most of your writhing was done unconsciously, pleasure continuing to wrack your body whole. Arousal pooled between your legs, spilling onto your husband’s tongue — and he consumed every drop.

Gwayne found his place between your thighs, as any devoted husband would. Every sound that he evoked from you, every shudder of your body, the slick of your arousal, he knew that it all belonged to him. Your needy moans filled your chambers, reverberating off of the walls.

“Gods, Gwayne!” You huffed, countenance screwed into a look of complete and utter bliss, lips agape and eyes fluttered shut. Without shame, you rode your husband’s face as best as you could, wrestling with his auburn locks as your knees squeezed at his head.

Perfect — it couldn’t have gotten any better than this.

His calloused palms ran along your thighs before finding their purchase against the swell of your hips, drunk and delirious from your cunt alone. He was positively whipped, a notion that he rarely admitted aloud, let alone shared with himself. The way you took his mouth with glee filled him with pride.

Another deliberate barrage of licks assailed your clit, causing you to shiver and moan, the sounds tapering off into a series of breathy pants. “Sweetling,” Gwayne crooned, timbre shifting into a delicious husk as he called you by that affectionate nickname. “You are incomparable.” He mumbled, nose brushing along the hood of your clit.

A pang of delight rippled through you as you preened beneath his desire-ridden compliment. Gwayne had a way with words, especially if he found himself in the mood to regale you with lewd whispers. The moment wasn’t now, but you hoped that it would be, soon enough.

That familiar coil of tenuous heat festered within the pit of your stomach, signaling the encroachment of your release. Gwayne buried himself into your cunt, spreading you apart, tongue greedily lapping at your core. His cock was desperate to be inside of you, slick with precum, straining against his trousers.

You chased after your release with reckless abandon, a low wine tearing past your lips as you tugged on Gwayne’s tresses with a sense of urgency. His lips found themselves pursed around the pearl of your cunt, suckling on that sensitive bud until you cried out.

It was an undeniable surge of utter bliss, an amalgamation of pleasure that made your thighs twitch and tremble. You threw your head back against the velveteen lounge, moaning your husband’s name as if it were the only word you knew.

Between the deliberate, timed strokes of his tongue and the stimulation of your clit, you could hold out no longer, digits curling inward, stomach sloshing with a molten warmth. “I— Gwayne!” You mewled, the sound deliciously innocuous as you approached your release.

It slammed into you with the force of a tidal wave, sending spasmodic shivers all along your body, making your skin undeniably hot. Gwayne groaned into your cunt, finding great pleasure in cleaning you up, reveling at the taste of your nectar, like a fine stout.

His cock throbbed with a pleading ache, wanting nothing more than to be inside of you. He was patient, but he could wait no longer, face appearing from between your thighs as he huffed. “I cannot continue to wait,” Gwayne murmured, voice laced with desperation. “I must have you, sweet wife.”

Still trapped within the white-hot throes of your release, you nodded, wanting more from him just as he did you. “I am yours completely.” You breathed, watching as he made for the bathtub. The water inside had gone from steaming to warm, not that he cared.

It was like a race, an eager clamoring to see who could get themselves into the basin first. Gwayne hastily unlaced his breeches, leaving them behind along the stone floor before he sank into the water, muscles unfurling almost instantaneously.

You stood, legs quivering from the might of your peak as you attempted to rid yourself of the silken slip, but Gwayne didn’t have time to watch you fiddle with your gown. “In,” With a sharp timbre interwoven with lust, you seemed surprised, but obeyed his command. “Come here.” He hissed.

Without delay, you stepped into the bathtub, still clad in your silken slip, which Gwayne paid little mind to. Eager, strong hands gripped your hips, dragging you closer until you were in his lap. Auburn tresses were slick with water, visage upturned into a look of sheer delight.

The gossamer silk stuck to your body, hitched around your hips, the wet garment clinging to your flesh. Gwayne lowered you enough to let his cock nudge against your folds, burying his face into the hollow of your throat. He pressed strings of needy kisses there, feeling you grind yourself against him.

Tugging at the thin, lace-woven straps of your slip, you revealed your breasts to him, fabric sagging along your midsection. You listened to the audible hitch of Gwayne’s breath, continuing to slide his cock along the length of your slit. “Sit,” He commanded, hands firm atop the swell of your hips. As you lowered yourself onto his length, he shivered, jaw tensing. “That’s it.”

His cock filled you perfectly — nothing of indomitable size or girth, but it was pretty, just like the rest of him. You gasped, palms moving to perch themselves atop his freckled shoulders. Gwayne groaned, slumping back against the slick, metallic wall of the tub, keeping one hand steady against your hip.

What sweet torment, Gwayne thought, tantalized and entranced by the way you began to ride him, sluggishly through the constant sloshing of water. He assisted you somewhat, guiding you along, occasionally lifting his hips to buck into you, but the efforts primarily rested with you.

“Seven Hells,” Gwayne huffed, cerulean hues drinking in the sight of you, disheveled and damp, countenance contorted into a look of pure bliss. “I missed that cunt of yours, wife. There is nothing like it.” A low grunt tapered off into a breathy sigh as you came down harshly, nails digging into his pale flesh.

Instead of cajoling him with sultry praises of your own, you kept quiet, one hand slinking toward the base of his throat. The newfound sensation left Gwayne visibly perplexed, but he enjoyed your little domineering streak, mouth curling into the ghost of a smirk.

His palm moved to cup your breast, toying with your nipple, slick from water, beginning to pebble with the cooler air. “Gwayne,” You moaned, bouncing upon his cock with all of the eagerness of a brothel whore. Enraptured, he observed you through a greedy, half-lidded stare. “You feel incredible.”

Before his cockiness and ego could come swinging into the fray, you lightly squeezed at his throat, evoking a sonorous groan from him. It was effective at silencing him, but his gaze burned for you, burned with something incendiary as he gently tweaked your breast, kneading at the soft mound.

You were divine, a goddess incarnate, made for him to worship at your feet. He simply couldn’t get enough of you, savoring the way in which his cock continued to bury itself within your tight walls, over and over again. That tenuous coil of warmth tightened within his belly, a rush of heat soon to follow.

His hips jolted again, bucking up into you until he hit that perfect spot inside of you. You gasped, mouth agape as your nails dug angry-red crescents into his shoulder. Gwayne’s own sounds of pleasure caressed your ear, feeling him lean in enough to press a string of kisses all over your breasts.

The hold you had upon his throat began to slack, thighs burning with a dull ache as you rocked yourself upon his cock, continuing to ride him. His cock bottomed out before you lifted yourself up again, only to fall right back down, letting him bury himself until he could go no further.

He looked gorgeous, crown of copper tresses lolled back against the tub, visage one of pleasure, hands continuing to grope and caress along your body. It was only when his length began to pulse and throb within you that he grit his teeth, bracing himself for his release.

A low, subtle ‘fuck’ tore past his mouth, goosebumps coalescing along the length of your spine. You didn’t relent, continuing to rock yourself upon his cock until he was bursting at the seams. With a noisy groan, Gwayne’s hips stuttered, filling you with ropes of hot seed.

Even the ache of war and sex could not spend him entirely, and if it were up to him, he would’ve had you on your back the second you stepped out of the tub. With a sigh of relief, he stroked your hip, watching as you came down with him.

“I will never tire of that,” Gwayne confessed, hand repositioning to stroke at your brow, tucking your hair behind your ear. “Will you stay and help bathe your husband?” He inquired, tone jocular and somewhat playful, but he seemed serious.

“Perhaps,” You mused, reaching for a bar of herb-laden soap, attempting to move off of him. Gwayne tutted, clicking his tongue with mild disdain as he pulled you right back down onto his cock. “Gwayne.” Issuing a soft-spoken warning, you gasped, brows furrowing together.

With a debonair smirk, he pressed a kiss against the hollow of your throat, lounging back within the tub, either arm perched along the sides. “You can stay just like that, dearest. You are well within arm’s reach.” That lascivious purr of him stoked yet another fire, and you relented, staying slotted atop him.

“You’re insufferable.”

copyright @ swordgrace ; please do not translate my work onto other platforms, copy, or steal my work and claim it as your own.

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