#fanfic: but for the light in his eyes

[fandomsandfairytales]

*currently mildly screaming because the timing of the Quenya ban in Beleriand is impacting what character names I'm using in my fic*

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Sharing is Caring!

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[lauraneedstochill]

I won’t fall for someone who can’t misbehave

summary: Aemond is betrothed to the sweetest girl in the Seven Kingdoms. She is smiley, soft and kind-hearted. Until she isn’t. (or, alternatively: “No one took your side when you were a kid. But I’m doing it now.”) pairing: Aemond Targaryen and F!Reader (her House is not specified) words: 9000 +

warnings: slow (!) burn, attempted harassment, Aemond is in pain 70% of the time (headache and all that) and has no clue how to act around someone he’s in love with. author's note: I’m working on 3 fics at the moment, and it’s taking forever to finish (yay for my poor time management skills!), so I whipped up something short(er). Rhaenyra is the queen here but I barely mention the blacks (not out of spite, I just thought it wouldn’t add anything to the story). also, I don’t think women would be allowed to misbehave like that... I don’t care ;)

Aemond knew of the preplanned betrothal even though everyone around him was ridiculously mysterious about the subject matter. He’s been made aware of the upcoming visit of some noble family, and the preparations were quite extensive. Then he overheard Baela telling Jace that the expected guests will bring their daughter. The middle one. It wasn’t very hard for Aemond to put two and two together. His wedding was long overdue, and Alicent was eager for him to make his choice. But he dreaded the mere thought of it.

Aemond’s never been very good at courting women, but mostly due to the lack of trying. He’s used to them looking at him with fear and suspicion as if he’s some kind of wild animal ready to attack at any minute. Getting sidelong glances did hurt him growing up, but with time Aemond learned to benefit from it, using his fearsome image as a shield. No one ever dared to try and break it to see what was underneath. But now he is faced with the inevitable change that’s approaching his life at the speed of a storm wave. To him, taking off the eyepatch won’t be nearly as excruciating as giving into the vulnerability of letting someone in, opening up to someone. He’s never been afraid of much but that? That was terrifying.

The anticipation made Aemond nervous. He knew he should probably ask around and try to gain any information about his soon-to-be wife, but it felt wrong. Not knowing felt even worse. No matter how good of a fighter he was, fighting the uncertainty seemed like a challenge. Aemond spent his nights tossing and turning, wrapped up in blankets as insomnia was clinging to his body. He tried to busy himself with training, but his usual easy victories brought him no satisfaction. He’s been winning for so long maybe it was time for him to lose. Except not to his training partners but to a stranger, who in time will get a permanent place in his life.

His rides with Vhagar, which usually brought him peace, now had the opposite effect. The old dragon acted annoyed and disgruntled for no reason, huffing and grumbling at every turn as if she could sense his own frustration. You can’t tame your emotions yet I’m supposed to listen to your commands? Silly boy. If Vhagar could speak, she would probably tell him that, Aemond thought. And he blamed himself even more.

Somewhere in the midst of it all, the headache came back. As usual, it started with a feeling of pounding heaviness in the back of his head, which then spread further: into his temples, forehead and down the hateful scar. Within a couple of days, the pain gets so bad, he has to grit his teeth to keep a straight face, and he's barely able to shove a few bits of food down his throat. But it’s a topic he never brings up, it’s a humiliating secret that’s just between him and his mother. When he lost his eye, for the first month the pain was close to unbearable. The maester kept telling him that it was caused by the healing of skin tissues and assured that the intolerable feeling would go away. It never did. His scar was something he learned to cover up, and the bright red stripe faded slightly with time, but the pain lingered. Aemond opted to think that it only contributed to him becoming more resilient, yet that argument didn’t withstand the test of time. The pain receded for some short periods, but then it would always come back, and he could never get used to that, no matter how hard he tried.

He can only hope it will get better by the time the guests arrive. But the gods seem deaf to his prayers, and the night before the event he doesn’t get a wink of sleep. He goes through his day in a daze, skipping the training session to hide in the library instead, although he can’t bring himself to focus and read more than a single page. When the time comes for him to walk into the dining hall, it’s the last thing he wants to do but he forces himself to go. Festive ornaments, tables laden with the finest dishes, bright-colored clothing of everyone around him blend and blur into each other. He takes deep breaths and counts his steps, gathering all his strength to sit down and not wince at the movement.

All it takes is one look at him for Alicent to understand what’s going on.

“Aemond,” she approaches him, whispering. “What’s wrong? Is it the headache again?”

Aemond doesn’t want to admit it, but he lacks the energy to deny it either so he just nods. She gives him a regretful look, gently squeezing his shoulder.

“Should I call for the maester? Maybe he will be able to come up with something to ease the pain.”

“I don’t think we have time to fuss over me,” he declines with a pain-stained voice. “I was under the impression that we’re expecting someone to join us today.”

Alicent sighs. She knows better than to fight his stubbornness, but she hates how helpless it makes her feel. Aemond hates that feeling, too.

“Please don’t tell me you require motivation,” Aegon’s voice is loud as it is but right now it sounds deafening, and Aemond sharply exhales. His brother flops on a nearby chair, bringing his ignorant attitude with him.

“Undoubtedly you’ve interacted with women before,” he chuckles, completely unaware of Aemond’s suffering. “Try not to scare her with your creepy stare, and maybe she won’t run away.”

Alicent briefly closes her eyes in annoyance. She glances around, making sure not to attract any attention, and then grabs Aegon by the chin, forcing him to look at her.

“Enough with pestering, I need you to behave yourself,” her voice is tinged with irritation. “Just for one evening. Can you do that?”

Aegon’s body stiffens up, the smug look disappearing from his face.

“As you wish, mother,” he mutters, and she lets go of him. Alicent shoots another glance at Aemond before leaving. Aegon gives his brother a side-eye but says nothing.

Aemond is exhausted, anxiety bubbling in his chest, and he thinks he has a few more minutes to compose himself yet that time passes in the blink of an eye. Before he knows it, the guards at the door make the announcement, and he sees a group of unfamiliar faces. None of them are of his age, though, and for a moment that realization brings him some comfort. But then he notices a female figure in the distance as she’s approaching the entrance.

When she walks in, the music goes quiet, and Aemond hears people gasping. It seems like every man in the room has his gaze on her. And she certainly is a sight for sore eyes. She moves with a gracious pace, the silky fabric of her dress flowing downward with every step. It’s not too revealing, but it hugs her body in all the right places. Her hair is up, and he can see the waves of her collarbones peaking through. A half-smile is plastered on her face, but she doesn’t seem to be nervous. If he was to take a guess, he would've said she was tired. But she won’t let it show, keeping her head high and being seemingly unaware of the attention she got. Maybe she’s used to it just like he is, Aemond thinks. Although people usually glare at him for a completely different reason.

“Someone is about to get a piece of cake,” Aegon elbows him lightly, his voice low.

“Someone needs to shut up,” Aemond snarls, earning a laugh from his brother. That catches her attention, and her gaze lands on Aemond. When their eyes meet, her face softens, smile growing wider. He tries his best to force a wan smile in return, but his stomach turns in discomfort. He can already imagine how people will react: a stunning woman like her with a man like him, what a tragedy. That thought stings, his anxiety growing stronger. The headache gets worse, and he tightens his grip on a cup of wine that he hasn’t even tasted yet. Aemond can’t help but wonder if she knew she would have to marry him. If it does bother her as much as it bothers him.

The members of her family are greeted as guests, with no mention of a possible betrothal. Her name is the only one he catches — and then silently repeats it a few times. Y/N, Y/N, Y/N, the sound of it breaking through his clouded mind. She’s seated next to him, as expected, and he notes that her dress compliments her eye color. Aemond is thinking of a way to start a conversation, but she beats him to it:

“You gave us such a warm welcome, but I must admit, I am surprised by the scale of it. I hope it wasn’t too much of an inconvenience?”

When her words reach his ears, the buzzing in his head stops, and Aemond turns to her, astonished by his own reaction. It’s not the naivety of her question, nor the friendly tone of it. It’s just her voice. Melodic and mellow, it feels soothing among the loud noises they’re surrounded with.

“I assure you, your family was simply welcomed with the respect you deserve,” he answers pensively. His throat is sore, but he can’t steel himself to take a sip of wine, afraid that it will make him sick. He wants her to speak again.

Aemond asks about her family, letting her lead the conversation. She is easy to talk to and she gives just the right amount of information before jumping to another topic. At any other time, he would’ve really enjoyed the flow of it, yet now he is growing weary. The headache is still there, but her voice does bring him some relief. That is until she abruptly stops.

“Are you feeling alright?” she sounds worried, and the same emotion is written on her face. Aemond tries to blink away his exhaustion. 

“I apologize if I’m not exactly the best at keeping you company. It’s been a long day,” he knows he should’ve come up with a better excuse. He feels like he can hardly function at this point.

She keeps her attention on him for a few more seconds. Then she moves her eyes to the other end of the table, where her family is seated. She makes eye contact with her father and gives him a big yawn. It’s obviously and comically fake but it works: her family finds an excuse to leave earlier. Aemond knows that now he also got a chance to escape soon after. He feels a pang of guilt knowing that he’s the reason their conversation was cut short, but she doesn’t make a big deal out of it.

“We shall continue on the morrow when we are both well rested,” she smiles reassuringly at him before leaving.

Aemond seriously doubts that he’ll get any rest as his head feels like it’s gripped in an iron vise again. The next morning he drags himself out of bed later than usual, the pain now dull but present nonetheless. He sits with his face in his hands, breathing in and out, until he’s almost numb. The almost leaves a sour feeling in his mouth — or maybe it’s the nausea, he doesn’t know nor does he care. He’s been handling this for years, he can survive another day.

Aemond decides that since he is to be wed, he should make an effort for it to work. He thinks about his duty, his mother, about Y/N, who traveled all the way to King’s Landing for a man she’s never met before. Aemond thinks of everyone but himself because there’s only so much he can do without draining himself completely.

He missed the breakfast already but hopes to find Y/N within the perimeter of the castle and rushes out of the bedroom. He’s passing by Helaena’s chambers when he hears someone laughing. And it’s not his sister. Aemond debates if he can deal with kids right now, but chooses to give it a chance and quietly walks in. Helaena has embroidery in her hands but seems more focused on a sight in front of her, and he follows her gaze. Y/N is sitting on the floor with her back to the door, Jaehaerys and Jaehaera are on either side of her, their cheeks plump and pink, tiny fingers grabbing her dress. She’s reading to them, and it’s a tale they’ve heard many times before, yet the kids are listening attentively, occasionally making noises of excitement. Aemond doesn’t need to speak gibberish to know that they are fascinated by the melody of her voice and the playful tone she uses to make the story more engaging. He leans on the door frame, his body relaxing at the sound. Jaehaera puts her head on Y/N’s shoulder and eagerly turns the page, making her laugh again.

“You are an impatient little thing,” Y/N giggles.

“That she is,” Helaena agrees, and when Y/N turns to her, she is surprised to see that Aemond joined them.

“Pardon me, I didn’t hear you coming in,” she stands up in a hurry, both kids are instantly glued to her. “Your sister was kind enough to keep me company.”

“I asked her to come by after breakfast, and they haven’t left her side ever since,” Helaena explains, sounding very pleased.

“Would you mind if I steal this new friend of yours?” Aemond asks while keeping his eye on Y/N, waiting for her reaction. Her face flushes but he sees no indication of discontent. Aemond grudgingly admits to himself that it brings him something akin to joy. But it fades, absorbed by his numbness.

“Make sure to be on time for dinner,” his sister nods, calling for the nanny to take the kids.

It takes a little bit of persuasion but eventually Jaehaerys and Jaehaera let Y/N go, and she follows Aemond out of the room. She mentions that Helaena wanted to show her the library, and Aemond agrees to take her there. Along the way, he strikes up a conversation in attempt to compensate for their last one. As she’s telling him about her morning, her voice seeps into his mind like honey, and Aemond tries to concentrate to take the right turns and not trip on the stairs.

When they walk into the library, she pauses, looking around in awe. This woman makes men turn around after her, yet she is so easily impressed by the simplest things, Aemond thinks. The prince wonders if she can ever be impressed by him.

“This is where you study?” she is admiring endless rows of shelves, and Aemond gives her an affirmative “hmm”.

“How many of these have you read?”

“Quiet a few,” he is modest as ever, and she shoots him a curious look.

“I wonder what are your preferred subjects.”

“History and philosophy,” he doesn’t mean to sound so terse, but whatever interactions with women he’s had before, that experience obviously didn't turn him into a lady’s man.

“Would you be so kind to share your favorite books with me?” when she glances at him, there is a sparkle in her eyes. It looks like she’s actually interested to know more, as if she does want to know him. His immediate response, however, is to distance himself, and he takes a step back.

“I am afraid there are not enough hours in the day to name them all,” Aemond opposes, hands clasped behind his back.

“Please, take pity on me, I need something to help me pass the time,” she presses the matter further but does so very gently. “Name just a couple.”

He gives into her pleading tone and reluctantly agrees but they don’t stop at just a couple. They end up spending the day roaming in the library, lost in the labyrinth of shelves and books. She’s never too pushy with her questions, she’s making small jokes, she doesn't take offense at his cold demeanor. Behind his mask of feigned indifference, Aemond feels like someone is hammering at his left temple, and the pain echoes through his whole body. But he doesn’t dare to leave her hanging for the second day in a row.

The prince is too preoccupied with his internal struggle to notice that she's growing worried about him again, and by the time they come back for dinner, her face expresses an alarming concern.

“I must apologize if I tired you out with my relentless chatting,” she says, almost whispering, when they are seated.

“You did not, no need to fret,” Aemond states. I must apologize that you are to marry a man who can’t curb the pain that’s spilling out of him, he thinks.

Food is tasteless in his mouth. She is sitting on his right, and Aemond’s body can’t adjust to the foreign feeling of someone being in his close proximity. He is so accustomed to being on his own, he doesn't know how to unlearn that.

Throughout the whole dinner, Aemond can feel his mother’s gaze on him. Later that evening, when a maid brings him a cup filled with the milk of the poppy, he decides against taking it. He regrets it the very next day.

When Aemond tries to lift his head off the pillow, he feels like his skull is full of rocks. They’re rolling from side to side as the pain rumbles, and for a few minutes he can't hear anything else around him. That’s why, when Aemond opens his eye, he’s startled at the sight of his mother standing in the doorway.

“I did knock but got no response,” she gives him a look that’s a mix of concern and suspicion. She suspects that he’s unwell again and it concerns her. He wishes she never knew of that burden of his.

Aemond moves up in his bed, clenching his jaw. He knows his mother well enough to realize she must’ve had a reason for this early visit. Alicent proves him right when she speaks.

“The queen went into labor a couple of hours ago.”

He absentmindedly hums, not knowing how to react. His mother continues, with a hint of hesitance.

“There will be a feast when the baby is born. We thought... Rhaenyra and I, we thought it would also make for an occasion to do the announcement. About your betrothal.”

Her words come as no surprise to Aemond. It is what’s expected of him, it’s about his duty and his responsibilities, but this time he doesn’t want to think of that. He wants to be left alone, to drown in the layers of blankets, to go back to his short-lived slumber.

“The day Y/N arrived, I asked the queen to postpone the announcement. To give you some time to get to know each other,” Alicent takes a few steps towards his bed. “It seems like you’re getting along quite well?”

“I could think of no better woman than her,” Aemond admits and it is true. What he doesn’t say is that he can also think of a dozen other men who would be more deserving of her, more than he is.

Alicent catches the discreet sadness in his words but doesn’t know what caused it. She eyes her son with undisguised empathy.

“Her father implied that she is content with the betrothal, too. I thought you’d be happy to know,” Alicent gives him a lax smile. “I shall let you go back to sleep,” she adds and leaves.

Aemond knows he’ll get no sleep now. He repeats the well-known routine of deep breaths with the minimum movements, scraping up the remains of his strength before leaving the room. He goes straight to Y/N’s chambers, wondering if his mother visited her, too, and how that visit went.

To his surprise, she is nowhere to be found. A maid informs him that she left the room a few hours ago. He can’t find her in the library and she isn’t in Helaena’s chambers, either. He searches for her in the courtyard and then goes back to roam through the corridors, peering into every room on his way. He’s lost in his thoughts until he hears Y/N calling his name. Aemond turns around — and there she is, at the other end of the hall.

“I’ve been looking for you,” she skips towards the prince, beaming. He could never imagine anyone being this happy at the sight of him. She stops when they are only a couple of meters apart, her smile glowing.

“We must’ve passed each other, because I’ve been looking for you, too,” he confesses. She seems very pleased with herself though he isn’t sure why.

“I think the weather calls for a walk,” she blithely suggests. “Would you like to accompany me?” — as the words leave her mouth, she reaches out a hand to him. For a moment Aemond is looking at her baffled, and then hesitantly takes her hand. Her skin is soft, fingers warm, and she intertwines them with his own. That gesture comes so naturally as if they’ve done it before, yet Aemond clearly hasn’t. The feeling of holding someone’s hand is unusual to him. But it seems enjoyable.

By the time they get to the garden, Aemond finds that her hand fits perfectly in his. He is blushing profusely. He also notices that his headache receded a little and he can’t help but think that she was the reason for that.

“Your mother came to me this morning,” she informs him as they are walking hand in hand. “I assume she talked to you, too?”

“She did,” Aemond confirms. “Am I right to guess we had the same conversation?”

“Well, mine was about uniting two great Houses,” she mimics a man’s voice, and Aemond grasps that Otto was there as well. “Your grandfather gave a very convincing speech.”

“He had a lot of practice while being the Hand of the King. Maybe he misses having an audience,” the prince chuckles and she laughs.

Aemond holds a pause and then adds. “Forgive me if I’m being too blunt but I wonder if the conversation was of unpleasant nature to you.”

“It was not,” she slows her steps. “I know what’s expected of me and I will perform my duty. But if I’m being honest...,” she turns to him, and the tenderness of her gaze tugs at his heart. “I am glad that it’s you,” Aemond feels a flare of an unknown emotion deep in his chest. “We’ll make a pretty good team. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Aemond lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. He looks down at their hands and then back at her.

“It seems so,” he tells her, a slight smile in the corner of his lips. There is a moment of comfortable silence as they make a short stop in the shade of the trees.

“But I shall give you a warning,” she says with a mischievous grin. “My siblings take any celebration very seriously. Every single relative of ours will come to the wedding, and most of them won’t shy away from enjoying a cup of wine... Or two.”

“Can any of them outdrink Aegon?” he jokes, and she bursts into laughter.

Aemond gets carried away by their conversation once again, losing track of time. While she’s listing her relatives, adding innocuous remarks about each of them, the prince is enthralled by the warmth that radiates off her. Her presence alone calms the storm of his insecurities, lulling his fears to sleep. She does that so effortlessly, it’s almost intimidating. But there’s a certain thrill to it, too — the thrill of being close to her, sharing laughs and stories, and Aemond clings to that feeling.

He enjoys the moment while it lasts; until his headache predictably creeps up on him a few hours later. He can’t tell if she senses that something is wrong but she’s the one to suggest returning to the castle. Aemond gladly accepts it.

On the way back they are greeted by one of the guards who notifies them that the queen gave birth to a girl. She lightly squeezes Aemond’s hand.

“Tomorrow is a big day then,” — and the prince knows exactly what she means. The fragile bond that they only started to get the hang of will soon become public knowledge. It won’t be their secret anymore but rather an over-discussed gossip.

“There is still time for you to plan an escape,” Aemond jests half-heartedly.

She looks puzzled for a second, but then shakes her head.

“Only if you’re planning one. We are in this together, remember?” her thumb brushes over his. “It’s all about teamwork.”

Aemond savors the last fleeting minutes of their day. He barely touches the food at dinner, the pain in his head intensifying but he pushes through. When the time comes for them to part, he doesn’t want to. That feeling is alien to him and the prince is clueless about its nature. But he knows that with her any misery will be bearable.

When Aemond walks into his chambers, he notices a little jar on the bed table. It’s the one that the maester used to bring him the ointments in, and the prince sighs. The maester doesn’t grasp the extent of the problem but occasionally would suggest a thing or two to help with the pain. They’ve tried using cold packs, then the warm ones, tried massaging his temples, then drinking cinnamon tea, then adding some ginger that’s known as a remedy for reducing inflammation... Nothing has worked so far.

But he should make an effort.

Aemond barely glances inside the jar and tosses away a piece of paper with the instructions scribbled on it. The prince already knows it all too well: he applies a thick layer of whatever that concoction is on his scar, involuntarily wincing at the cooling sensation. It smells of herbs and feels oily but absorbs into the skin pretty fast.

For some reason, his mind goes back to his mother’s words — “I thought you'd be happy to know.” Aemond is unsure what happiness means. The happiest day of his life is forever chained with the worst one, smeared with blood and pain that he's been carrying through the years.

But now that he met Y/N, he questions if there’s more to life than what he's been through so far.

While he is laying in bed, Aemond wonders if can consider her his friend. If she will ever be more than just a friend to him.

And then, before he knows it, the prince is fast asleep. He wakes up feeling like a new man. At first, he mistakes that feeling for the remnants of his dreams that he was enveloped with at night. He shakes off his drowsiness and looks at the ceiling, catching a glint of sunlight that seeped through the curtains. That's when Aemond realizes that the pain is gone.

He sits up, bewildered, waiting for any sign of discomfort yet nothing happens. He waits for a couple of minutes — and then for up to thirty, but his head is clear and doesn’t ache at all. His eye shifts to the jar on the bed table, and Aemond makes a note to extend his gratitude to the maester later. Suddenly the upcoming festivities don't seem so torturous anymore.

He doesn’t get a chance to see her throughout the day as everyone is preparing for the feast. When Aemond walks into the hall of the Iron Throne, he takes in the decorated surroundings. Unlike the last time he was here, now he wants to remember every detail, knowing that this evening would be of great importance.

The room fills with people, but Aemond patiently waits for her alone. He spots her the second she steps in. Her dress is violet, the material bright and luminous, and it puts her into the spotlight yet again since she's the only one wearing that color. As soon as she takes her place at the table next to Aemond, her hand finds his. He's getting used to that way too fast. It’s hard not to.

The first round of toasts goes to honor Visenya, the newborn daughter of the Queen. Rhaenyra willingly tolerates the sweet talk, generous with her smiles and appreciation. At some point, when the timing seems right or maybe when her cheeks are already aching, she gives a nod to Alicent, and Aemond knows what it means. As she starts her speech, he ruefully releases Y/N’s hand.

But right when they are standing up, with everyone around cheering and staring, she lightly presses her body against his, and Aemond feels how tense her back is. That’s when it dawns on him that she’s well aware of the attention but she doesn’t really like it. Instinctively, he puts his fingers on her waist, his touch respectful and delicate. She breathes out and briefly rests the back of her head against his shoulder. For a moment it feels like it’s just the two of them.

That feeling doesn't go away.

Usually, he’s not the one to take part in dancing, but he does so for her. Aemond feels out of practice and he can’t tell if that's what makes his head spin or if he’s getting tipsy from the intimacy of their dance. Her moves are elegant, well-rehearsed, her body follows the rhythm of the music with ease. He doesn’t remember when was the last time that silly activity brought him so much elation. Did it ever?

Time flows by in a blur, and they eventually take a pause after going into a fit of giggles at the sight of Lord Velaryon trying to improvise a move and failing, only to amuse his loving wife. Y/N suggests going out for a while and Aemond is keen on following her but then his mother catches up to them, her hand and her gaze are on him in an instant, pulling him away.

“Aemond, you’ve been dancing,” she can’t hide her bewilderment, a timid smile on her face.

“Should I not? Seems like a suitable occasion,” Aemond chaffs with a tilt of his head.

“It is, indeed,” she doesn’t let him go just yet, and he discerns the hidden meaning of her words, the apprehension she fails to conceal. Aemond wants to grant her some respite, at least for the rest of the day, so he tells her with plain-spoken sincerity:

“I can assure you, this isn’t a cause for your distress.”

But then he quickly finds a cause for his when he doesn’t see Y/N around. He goes searching for her in the crowd, then leaves the room altogether, coming out into the hallway.

Aemond hears her before he sees her — and she isn’t alone. It takes no effort to recognize the second voice, which belongs to no other than Jason Lannister. As the prince rounds the corner, they come into sight, and Aemond has a very bad feeling.

He missed the start of their dialogue, and the look on her face is unreadable. She’s oblivious to Aemond’s presence and he decides to watch them. He tells himself that he’ll never allow her to get into trouble. There is something very tempting in having a chance to save her from anything; as if he feels the need to prove himself to her. He tries not to entertain that thought.

“... It’s not too late to change that, don’t you think,” Ser Lannister purrs, his tone sickly sweet but arrogant.

“It is. Which I have no regrets about, ser,” when she talks to him there's not a hint of friendliness in her voice.

“Your approach may be short-sighted. The proposition of mine wasn’t of a frivolous kind,” he’s circling her, the manner of his movement is borderline predatory.

“I believe you will soon find a lady to welcome your advances but I would very much prefer to drop this conversation,” she recapitulates.

Aemond tenses up, feeling like this is the moment for him to step in. Then he looks at her and realizes that something is off. Her face expression changes — but it’s not a look of fear. By the rising of her chest, he detects that her breathing sped up, eyes are shooting daggers at the man in front of her. She’s looking, for the lack of a better word, positively furious.

But Ser Lannister, apparently, is not very good at reading signs as he comes improperly close to her.

“I can be very persuasive,” his fingers fall on her back — and then go lower. “I think you should appreciate the attention while I’m this generous and...”

He doesn’t finish his sentence. In about two seconds his face is suddenly slammed into the nearby wall, the hand he put on her is now twisted behind his back. Y/N uses her free hand to push right between his shoulder blades, pressing him into the stony surface.

To say that Aemond is shocked would be an understatement.

Right at this moment, she looks like a different person. This side of her he’s not acquainted with but it only adds to her appeal. The change is barely perceptible: she’s still maintaining her posture, keeping up the face of a woman who knows her worth. But Aemond catches a flaming spark of defiance that threatens to shutter her restraint. He can sense her anger from far away despite her doing her best to contain it.

“I do not know what kind of attention you are used to, but you’re forgetting your manners. Next time you dare lay your hand on me, I will not hesitate to break it,” her voice doesn’t lose its usual softness, but now has an added layer to it. It sounds sharper, bolder. It sounds like she’s not afraid of anything.

She lets Ser Lannister go, taking a few steps back and smoothing her dress. He is frozen at first, but then slowly turns to her.

“You didn’t... You did not just do that,” there’s a visible red mark on his cheek that will undoubtedly turn into a bruise.

“Did what, ser?” her tone is laced with coldness.

The man looks at her in disbelief, his face is a parade of emotions — from shock to annoyance to anger.

“You will not get away with this,” he scowls, nettled.

“You are telling me that you’re considering letting everyone know you were overpowered by a woman? Sounds hard to believe,” she seems unfazed.

His mouth opens and closes a few times before he roars:

“You, insidious wre—!”

This time Aemond is the one to interrupt the man. “I suggest you watch your tone when speaking to my betrothed.”

She flinches at his voice, turning to face him, and Aemond slackens his pace a little.

“Shouldn’t she watch hers? She’s talking to a lord,” Ser Lannister exclaims lamely, his arrogance instantly toned down a notch.

“And I see no wrongdoing on her part. Care to explain what got you into this situation?”

“It was a... a simple misunderstanding,” his excuse is so pathetic that it makes the prince sneer.

“And what was the matter in question?” Aemond comes closer to the man which makes ser Lannister evidently uncomfortable. He carefully contemplates his next move.

“I only wanted to extend my congratulations on her betrothal,” the man fakes a smile. “Mayhaps I expressed myself poorly.”

“You should opt to choose your words more wisely next time,” Aemond looks down on him. “Perhaps you are needed somewhere else?”

“I shall rejoin the celebration then,” ser Lannister eagerly agrees and bows out way too quickly.

Aemond can barely wait for the man to get out of sight before turning to her. Even though the prince witnessed the whole thing, he can’t stop himself from asking:

“Did he harm you?”

“He didn’t get a chance,” she mumbles, avoiding his gaze. She looks so embarrassed, he wants to offer her some comfort but isn’t sure how.

"Dare I say we’ve got enough interactions for one evening?" Aemond tries to lighten the mood yet she only offers him a half-hearted smile.

“I will escort you to your chambers,” the prince suggests, and before she can argue he adds, “I know you can stand up for yourself if needed. But I insist.”

She doesn’t move an inch.

“...You are not mad at me?” she’s looking at him with doe-eyed sincerity, clearly upset. Aemond is mad at himself.

“I am thinking about cutting his arm off,” he says under his breath, but she catches it.

“Aemond, there’s no need!” she gasps and he sees a glimpse of a smile on her lips.

“I will have to disagree,” he starts but then she grasps his elbow and Aemond’s hand — finally — clings to her again.

“I don’t want you to get in trouble because of me,” she confesses. 

“And I don’t want you to get hurt,” his fingers caress her arm through the lace material. Her cheeks heat up and Aemond finds it adorable.

“I think I... I was the one who did some damage,” she complains.

“You must imagine my surprise,” Aemond drawls, teasing.

“Oh, Gods,” a quiet groan leaves her mouth. “That was not very ladylike of me.”

She covers her face with the other hand, her grip on his arm loosening. Aemond dithers before gently brushing her palm away from her face.

“You did the right thing and you have nothing to be ashamed of,” he enunciates each word. “He only sets an example of unseemly behavior.”

“I’m afraid I wasn’t too far off,” she remarks, her voice relenting.

“Hmm, you are certainly not to be truffled with,” he retorts, earning a faint laugh from her as they start walking, arm in arm.

“May I inquire how did you... master that very handy skill?” Aemond ventures to ask. That image of her — brave and unapologetic in her anger — will be forever engraved in his memory. Aemond is apprehensive about voicing his curiosity, uncertain of her reaction but when she answers:

“My father taught me that,” her tone is surprisingly impish.

“And how did you manage to talk him into it?”

“Talking didn’t help much, actually,” she grins. “And then I broke my brother’s nose and my father decided he should find a way to guide my enthusiasm.”

“How old were you?”

“Nine,” she looks so satisfied with herself, Aemond can’t hold back a small laugh.

She joins him and they fall into the comfort of each other’s company. But then her smile wilts.

“There was a time when I was the youngest child and my siblings... They weren’t very nice back then,” she blurts out. Aemond feels his heart sinking.

“What did they do?”

“Oh, it wasn’t that bad, honestly, they were only teasing. It’s just um,” she’s looking for the right words or maybe for an acceptable explanation, but there isn’t any. “It was very tiresome mostly. I could never understand the reason for them being mean.”

Aemond is yet to tell her the story of him losing his eye, and the memory pops back into his head in a flash. He knows exactly what she feels, his own sense of helplessness fresh in his memory. And it still stings the same, and Aemond loathes that.

While he revisits the past, unwillingly slowing his pace, she spots the change in his demeanor within seconds. She sees his facial features congealing, his fingers clenching, and she comes to the only conclusion she can make.

“Is it the headache?” her voice is suddenly quiet, and Aemond comes to an abrupt stop. The question catches him off guard, words stuck in his throat and his mouth agape. He doesn’t know how to react nor does he understand how could she possibly know that.

She is quick to clear up his confusion. “I noticed not long after we met and then your mother confirmed my suspicions. I am sorry that I didn’t ask you directly, I thought... I didn't want to sound intrusive,” she explains coyly.

“By asking about my health?” he finds his voice again. “I am to become your husband, you are free to ask such questions.”

“We’ve only known each other for about a day back then. Surely, you’re allowed to take more time than that to open up to someone,” she kindly points out.

A day. Up until now the only person who’s known about his pain was his mother, and for years no one else ever questioned his well-being. And it took her a day to notice that something was wrong.

“Did the ointment help?” she asks hopefully. For a second he thinks he heard her wrong but the shadow of concern on her face tells him otherwise.

“That was your doing?” he can’t hide his amazement, and it elicits a laugh from her, sonorous and dulcet. Aemond likes the sound of it, he really does.

“I’ve been fortunate to obtain the knowledge required,” she informs him.

“And what kind of witchcraft is it?”

“It is not,” she playfully elbows him. “It was something my grandsire taught me. He used to have an ache of a similar nature. No one could understand the cause of it, and it only got worse with age. But my grandmother refused to sit idly by and one day she found a way to ease his pain,” she has a dreamy expression on her face but it melts into a wistful one. He guesses that both of her grandparents passed away.

“After her death, he wouldn’t let anyone help him. It took me months to persuade him and eventually he let me on her secret,” her smile is bittersweet. “Then he died, and I never thought the recipe would come in handy ever again.”

Aemond hates seeing her wallow in sadness. He puts his palm on top of her hand in an attempt to offer some consolation. If there was a way to free her of that grief, to take at least some of it upon himself, he would’ve done it in a heartbeat. But his touch is enough to bring back the cheerfulness in her voice.

“I should mention that your maester did help, too, although he was reluctant at first,” she reveals.

"And I presume that it also took some convincing?" Aemond thinks of the maester’s face that always looks like he is surrounded by imbeciles.

“I shamelessly boosted his ego,” she wrinkles her nose. “Told him there was no way anyone would ever be as skilled as he is, and that my attempt was merely a gesture of goodwill.”

“But it wasn’t just that,” Aemond cordially protests.

They already reached her chambers but he doesn’t want to let go of her hand. He wants to tell her that meeting her was like taking a breath of fresh air after being held underwater, like finding a source of light in the pitch darkness of the night or feeling the warmth in the dead of winter. Aemond wants her to know that she’s been a saving grace for him, but he’s somehow at a loss for words, his thoughts jumbling together.

“It was way more than that and I...,” never in his life had he gotten this tongue-tied and flustered. Yet she treats him with the same kindness and with no sign of prejudice, listening closely and keeping her eyes on him. Her gaze is disarming enough to make him say the first thing that comes to mind.

“I must admit, you exceeded my expectations,” Aemond breathes out.

It immediately feels like the worst, the dullest choice of words possible, and he wants to sink into the ground right this second. But then he sees her natural smile, genuine and bright, blossoming on her face again.

“I am glad to be of service, my prince,” she murmurs the last part, and his heart skips a bit.

He didn’t register the moment she came a bit closer, but she isn’t shying away from shortening the distance. There’s something enamoring about her trusting nature but that’s not what draws him in. For the first time, he experiences an unfamiliar feeling that tightens his chest, makes his breathing rapid. His gaze slips over her face, down from her radiant eyes to her smile, framed by the lips that look as soft as freshly bloomed flowers. The feeling melts into an urge — he only needs to take a step, to lean his head forward just a bit and...

Aemond inhales deeply. He thinks they are in no rush, he thinks it would’ve been disrespectful and naive. He’s mostly afraid to misread the situation, to scare her away.

But he wants to make his intentions clear. Aemond runs his thumb over her knuckles, brushing them one by one. And then he takes her hand to his lips, planting a kiss on it. He allows himself just this flicker of bravery before straightening up and releasing her hand. When he looks at her, her gaze is directed at him already. It feels like a particular question is hanging in the air; they let it dissolve for now.

“I shall bid you goodnight,” her eyes linger on him for a second before she turns away.

As Aemond watches her go, he is certain he wants them to be more than just friends. Lucerys’s name day comes in a about month, and by that time Aemond’s routine has changed drastically. It might look the same: he wakes up with the sun, flies with Vhagar, he trains regularly, he spends his free time reading — except now Y/N is a part of his every activity.

She’s never nosy or clingy; he is the one seeking her company at all times. She’s an early riser, too, and they are always the first ones at the breakfast table: he asks her about her dreams, they make plans, they poke fun at Aegon, who is perpetually sleepy, and she can effortlessly hold any other conversation with his family which only makes him ever so pleased.

She watches him train with genuine curiosity, she never looks away nor flinches, even when he gets too competitive and rough. Her attention is flattering — and it’s all on him, and it feels unusual at first, but becomes empowering and he bathes in it.

When he takes her to meet Vhagar, she is terribly nervous. Aemond jokes that meeting his old dragon will pose no challenge after she handled Ser Lannister. It gives her enough confidence to pat Vhagar’s snout as the beast observes her calmly. Aemond assures her that the dragon will never go against his wishes. What he wants to say is that Vhagar senses how he feels about her.

They spend evenings in the library, both absorbed in reading but always sitting close by, their arms and shoulders coming into contact more often than not. He sometimes can’t help but get distracted which leads to him forgetting about his book, instead secretly watching her, his glance full of adoration.

For a while, he’s oblivious to how inseparable they’ve become until Helaena tells him one day, while Y/N is playing with Jaehaerys and Jaehaera in his sister’s chambers. When Helaena mentions it ever so nonchalantly — “You two seem joined at the hip!”, it startles him. But that moment doesn’t turn into an awkward one — instead, Aemond realizes that he's not scared anymore.

“I will steal her away from time to time,” Helaena says, as cheery as ever.

“Bold of you to assume I will let you,” he chuckles, his gaze not leaving his betrothed.

“I think she’ll have the last word,” his sister retorts with a cunning smile.

Aemond doesn’t think twice before admitting. “She will never say no.”

“My point exactly.” The Queen plans a great hunt to celebrate her secondborn son, and a feast is being held in no time. Aemond detests those pompous events yet Y/N seems too enthusiastic about the idea, and he begrudgingly agrees to participate. He has no wish to burden her with his weighted resentment toward Luke but, as usual, she sees right through him. She asks him if he has any reservations about the upcoming celebration, and that’s when he decides to tell her. Aemond doesn’t want her to pity him nor does he want to upset her so he keeps the story brief: he claimed the dragon, his siblings didn’t like it, things escalated way too quickly and they haven’t been on good terms ever since. 

She heeds his every word, then bluntly asks. “Must you really go?”

He ponders before answering with a sigh. “It would be rude not to. I should pay my respect.”

“I wish he had the courtesy to do the same for you,” she frowns.

“It would be a little too late for an apology,” Aemond shrugs even though her caring tone moves him deeply.

“I still think you deserve one,” she says like it’s the most obvious, logical thing in the world. He wonders how obvious the reddening of his cheeks is.

“I do not wish to dwell in the past when so many great things lay ahead of me,” and he only means her. Having a future with her is his greatest blessing.

She bestows him with her softest smile. “I guess we should make the best out of the situation we are in. Maybe you will have some fun hunting.” Aemond doesn’t know what was her definition of fun, but his definitely doesn’t involve babysitting Aegon. Yet that’s what he ends up doing as they get separated from the group of hunters and his brother gets so drunk, he can barely stay in the saddle. He babbles and whines and Aemond is on the verge of praying for a miracle when the two of them finally stumble upon a boar. The younger prince catches the animal without a struggle.

“Oh, must be good to be a boar. Wild and free!” Aegon grumbles on their way back to the camp.

“I just slit his throat. I doubt you would want to switch places with him.”

“I didn’t say I want to switch places,” he shakes his head so vigorously, he almost falls down. Aemond moves his horse closer, grabbing Aegon by the shoulder to steady him.

“Although switching places with you sounds tempting,” he sneers.

“And why would you ever want that?” Aemond raised his brow questioningly.

“You got yourself a pretty wife-to-be,” Aegon chants and whistles.

“Are you asking for me to tie you to that boar? That can be arranged,” Aemond deadpans.

“ 'tis won’t be necessary,” Aegon's quick to object. “Whatever she sees in you, those qualities are not in my possession,” his frown turns into a grin and he winks at his brother.

Aemond lightly chuckles. “You’ll get no argument from me.” Leaving her is not an easy task for Aemond but coming back to her might be the second-best thing in the entire world. And the first one, obviously, is being with her.

When they return to the camp, he helps Aegon down, impatiently looking around, and as his eye lands on her, his breathing hitches.

She’s standing next to the hunting tent, surrounded by a group of ladies, Helaena by her side and they’re both laughing as his sister unsuccessfully tries to finish her sentence. Y/N has a violet in her hair, strands of it falling down her shoulders, her smile bright against the fading evening sun. She helps Helaena to articulate whatever she's talking about, the ladies around them cackling.

Aemond admires his betrothed from afar, savoring the moment.

It amuses him that her softness is a choice, that she chooses to be open-minded and kind, even though the world around her is armed to the teeth, and she does know how to fight back. And yet, that’s not what motivates her. Instead, she’s an image of benevolence and generosity, always understanding and forgiving, hence why people are so naturally drawn to her. And he is no exception.

Aemond gets distracted when a couple of servants approach him and he instructs them to take the boar’s carcass away.

“You had a successful hunt, dear prince,” when Aemond hears the question, he rolls his eye. Turning around, he sees Tyland Lannister with a smile so forged his face might crack in half.

“As usual,” Aemond answers indifferently. “Never took you for a hunter.”

“I cannot appreciate cruelty,” Lannister forces out. “And I am afraid I will not be able to negotiate my way out of a bear’s grip. So I am here merely to control my brother’s primal impulses.”

The mentioning of Jason makes Aemond cautious.

“Developing some self-control may be beneficial for him,” the prince mutters.

Tyland goes blanch white, taking the hint. “I was wondering if I should address the delicate issue of my brother’s sympathy toward your—”

“You should not,” Aemond cuts him off. “Would be better to address his manners but it’s the thing you must sort out amongst yourselves,” with that, he turns away to find Y/N again.

Except she isn’t there.

The ladies moved closer to the tent but she and Helaena are the only ones missing. It takes him a second to realize that the women look alarmed, glancing at the tent. Or rather inside of it.

Aemond all but runs there, going over the worst scenarios in his head. When he gets in and sees Y/N in the company of Ser Lannister, he thinks he’s never been angrier in his life. If Aemond was a dragon, the lord would’ve been burned to a pulp as of right now.

Jason keeps his distance and his face expresses nothing but regret yet it looks like it’s already too late as she is glaring at him with a sharp glint in her eyes. And in the next moment, she loses her temper.

“...What am I missing exactly?” she asks Jason, her voice unexpectedly loud, and it draws the attention of some nearby men. She doesn’t care.

“You’ve been eager to win me over, but I am yet to find a single reason why would any woman find your company endearing,” she takes a step toward the lord and he shrivels under the weight of her words.

“Is it the winery that your servants built for you? Is it your herd of fine horses? You talk so much about your stable, one may think your betrothed is to marry a stallion,” her smile is mirthless. Aemond hears a faint groan behind his back and recognizes Tyland’s scared tone.

“But what are your accomplishments?” the tent gets deadly quiet as she continues. “Do you consider your persevering courtship to be one of them? Or your harassing of my parents, my relatives and even my maids with your never-ending propositions, no matter how many times were they all rejected? Or mayhaps ambushing me in the hallway counts as an achievement for you?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Aemond sees Helaena and Aegon, both looking stunned. Pretty much everyone around him has the same expression at the sight of Y/N. The prince, on the other hand, has never been more proud of anyone.

She looks at Jason as if she wants to bore a hole in him, her voice getting lower but harsher.

“You want to know what prince Aemond did? None of the above.”

Aemond feels his heart freeze at the mention of his name. She is yet to see him but when she speaks, it feels like she’s seen enough.

“The man I am about to marry has been nothing but kind, respectful and loving, fulfilling my every wish, granting me the comfort of his company and his loyalty. The man with the sharpest mind and the kindest heart — both of which you’re clearly lacking,” she casts Jason a disdainful glance. “So from where I am standing, it looks like I’m the luckiest woman in the Seven Kingdoms.”

When she feels a hand on her waist, she isn’t surprised and welcomes the touch with no hesitation, knowing full well who is standing beside her. She swiftly turns to Aemond, their eyes locking.

“I would like it if we left earlier, my prince.”

“As you wish,” Aemond wishes he could marry her right now.

Disregarding everyone’s attention, he leads her out and asks the coachman to fetch their carriage. When they are away from prying eyes, her confidence wavers a little. It only fuels Aemond’s ire.

“Give me just a second,” he can’t help himself.

Aemond goes back to the tent — and right to the Lannisters, one of them is already scolding the other. Tyland stops his lecturing when he notices Aemond, but the prince doesn’t let him make a sound.

“That was the second time your brother couldn’t hold his tongue,” Aemond ignores Jason and walks up close to the other man. “If you care about his well-being in the slightest, make sure there will be no third time.”

“Aemond, let us not make another scene. You must think how that will look like...”

Aemond stares Tyland dead in the eyes and promises:

“I will gut him like a boar. Imagine how that will look like.”

Without saying another word, the prince storms off.

Y/N already got into the carriage, fidgeting with the hem of the dress as she falls deep into her thoughts.

“Ser Lannister will not bother you anymore,” Aemond says, sitting next to her.

“I sure hope so,” she mumbles, looking down at the wrinkled fabric.

“Whatever he said, you should not let it get to you. I do appreciate the gesture,” way more than he cares to admit, “but there’s no need to go through the trouble of standing up for me,” Aemond barely finishes the sentence when she retorts:

“I will.”

She looks at him, her eyes burning with blazing certainty.

“No one took your side when you were a kid. But I’m doing it now,” she states as her palm covers his, the touch is as warming as her glance.

Aemond thinks he is the luckiest man in the Seven Kingdoms. He runs out of luck so fast, he must’ve jinxed it. They are nearing the castle when the pain on the back of his head stings so unexpectedly, he winces, his eyebrows furrowing. She notices it immediately and insists he should take a rest when they arrive.

“Mayhaps you have some of the ointment left?” she wonders, leading him to his chambers. Aemond rarely allows people to coddle him but he accepts her care freely. He is also aware that the near-miraculous balm that she makes is long gone because he hasn't had a headache in a while.

When she finds out, she looks devastated.

“It must steep for a few hours, I can’t make it right away,” her enthusiasm brittles. She glances at him in a dither, mulling over something, while he lights the fireplace.

“There is another way that I know of,” she slowly suggests. “But you will need to lie down."

“Quite a vulnerable position you want to put me in,” Aemond lightheartedly jests but brings himself at her disposal with no second thoughts.

She sits on his bed right next to him, the bend of her hips an inch away from his arm.

“Close your eye,” she asks calmly and he obliges.

Aemond senses that she leans over him and he struggles not to hold his breath at the realization of how close she is. Then he feels the tips of her fingers on his face, the touch is so light and gentle, it makes him shiver. The pattern of her movements first contours his face, then goes up to his forehead, then slowly glides onto his temples. She massages them delicately in a circular motion.

“It was probably all the noise that caused this,” she presumes.

“Or maybe the fact that the man makes my blood boil,” Aemond says, although his anger is completely gone by now.

“He is pissed I didn't choose him,” she laughs quietly.

“Choose him?” her words peak his interest. “You had a choice in the matter?”

“My father said he would hate it if I marry someone I didn’t like,” her thumbs are following the lines of his cheekbones, then run under his chin, then all the way up to his hairline, right next to his ears.

“May I ask what was your decision process?” Aemond selects his words very carefully. What he really wants to ask is why would anyone pick him, out of all people.

“I’ve heard you claimed the biggest dragon in the world at the age of ten,” he can’t see her smile but he can hear it. “That was impressive enough.”

Aemond takes a peek at her through his lashes. “That can’t be the only thing you’ve heard.”

“I can distinguish valuable information from pointless rumors,” she notes imperturbably.

“I bet those rumors included the stories of me being the scariest man in the realm...”

Her fingers cover his mouth and he stumbles.

“I decided I would be the judge of that,” she says firmly.

“And what is your verdict?” he can't stop himself from asking, his pulse speeding up.

She doesn’t think for a second.

“All the people who were spreading those vile tales clearly have never met you. There isn’t a single bad thing I can think of when it comes to you.”

Aemond shouldn’t take it to heart but that’s precisely where it hits, her voice cracking his shield, her eyes telling him she will never regret knowing him, caring for him. He thinks this is what true happiness is — being with someone who will choose you every time.

Her fingers graze over the strip of his eyepatch and she pauses her movement. She isn’t breaking eye contact, waiting for his reaction, for his permission or refusal. Aemond gulps, helpless under her gaze, and doesn't stop her.

She picks up the leather strip slowly, as if she wants to give him a chance to change his mind. Aemond watches her, his body still, heart rate booming in his ears. She removes the eyepatch and looks straight at the sapphire that gleams brightly in the warm lighting. And then she smiles.

“What do you see?” he exhales.

“Nothing scary, that’s for sure,” her gaze doesn’t leave his face, her index finger tracing the scar, barely touching his skin.

“Nothing I don’t admire,” her voice is a little above a whisper.

“Nothing I wouldn’t love.”

His heart is beating so fast, it feels caged and ready to jump out at any second. Aemond forgets about the headache as if it never existed. In this state of bliss, he contemplates making a very emotional decision. But she makes one instead.

She lowers her face closer to his and all of a sudden he feels a touch so light, it’s almost like a petal brushes over his skin. It’s her lips. She kisses his face — his scar — moving tenderly from the high point of his cheek to the area under the sapphire and then right above what’s left of his eyelid.

When their eyes meet again, Aemond can only think of one thing.

He surges upward, his lips colliding with hers — she responds in an instant. His chest feels like it’s on fire as kissing her is the most overwhelming feeling in the world, but he doesn’t want to stop, ever. Her fingers gently slide down to his neck and Aemond uses his arm for support as he sits up without breaking the kiss. He then pulls her closer, one of his hands on her lower back and the other nestled under her jaw.

She softly sighs into his mouth — and it might be his new favorite sound. She tastes like berries, her lips getting more eager, fiery, addictive, and he is dizzy with joy and longing, trying to memorize each second. The pacing of the kiss grows heated and intoxicating as they melt into each other perfectly. They only part when both are out of air, their lips tingling, swollen and craving to continue.

“I must admit,” she tries to catch her breath, she can’t stop smiling, her hands caressing his face, “you exceeded my expectations.”

Aemond laughs, cheerful and carefree, his nose bumping into hers.

“It’s all about teamwork, as I’ve heard,” he plants a quick peck on the corner of her mouth — and on the other one. And then they are kissing again, desperately drawn to each other. He’s lost in the sound of her voice, in the feeling of her lips on his.

His love for her is all-consuming. Her love for him is healing.

Turns out, letting her in doesn’t make him lose. With her by his side, he always feels like a winner.

✧ the title is a quote from Hozier’s song ✧ I originally took inspiration from this post that lists the possible consequences of losing an eye. I also can’t help but mention the extensive research that @adderess did, which only adds to that heartbreaking yet very realistic concept. ✧ I have a playlist for Aemond 🎵 I didn’t add any music in this fic BUT I’ve listened to “Mr Sandman” a lot, especially the instrumental version. 💕 my masterlist

English is not my first language, so feel free to message me if you spot any major mistakes!

[that-squishy-robot]

I’ve been thinking to much about a modern AU where Grogu is 15 instead of a baby. Luke is a cop and Din is (REDACTED)(literally no one knows what he does. ) or maybe he’s a fire fighter.

Grogu gets arrested because he took Din’s motor cycle out for a test drive and slightly wrecks it. (It’s actually his, but he can’t have until he’s 18).

Luke picks him up and is waiting for him at the police station. He’s there like wow, this kid is literally me when I was his age. But Luke was that way because his father is the police chief, and he was always striving to keep up with him. So hey, maybe Grogu needs someone another parental figure in his life, and Luke tries to bond with him in hopes it keeps the kid out of trouble.

But Grogu is just “What? No. My dad is great. I fucking love my dad.” And “My dad is going to come pick me up, and he’s going to be so disappointed in me. He’ll tell me he’s happy I’m ok, and that he’s disappointed in me. Then he’s going to give me the look, and I’m going to cry…. Then he’s going to call uncle Boba and he’ll be disappointed to.”

When Din gets their to pick him up after breaking several traffic laws in a panic, he looks terrifying. Luke is concerned for Grogu’s safety because this guy looks like he could be in the Mafia. He’s not… probably anyway. But he bee lines straight for Grogu and hugs him. He was so worried he wasn’t even speaking English for at least 3 minutes.

Luke falls head over heels in a second.

[draco-renn]

Only now do I realize how deeply draining it is to interact with someone with low self-esteem... Like I get it, I've been there, but good god. How do you have such low self-esteem that you cycle back around to being the most obnoxiously self-absorbed person on the planet.

[rhys-ravenfeather]

Oh yeah, so WAY back when, when I read fanfiction a lot more, there was an anime fanfic I read (an Inuyasha fanfic, if anyone was curious), and at one point, the author said that they hate the trope in anime of characters having unnaturally colored hair and/or eyes.

Like?!?! Why are you even here then, that's at least 80% of all anime and manga, lol.

[inamindfarfaraway]

This is an incredibly niche and specific opinion, but I don't like Duke Thomas's eyes being portrayed as 'flecked with gold' or 'honey-coloured' or 'shining golden in the light' or whatever. His natural eye colour should be very dark brown, so that when they glow that bright gold when he uses his powers it feels momentous. It feels like another side of him. Something that came from an immortal, a being who might not even qualify as human; something that makes him question his own humanity and how much his powers are truly a part of himself, or one he wants to accept, at first. There should be such a striking visual contrast that, if the eyes are the windows to the soul, you can see how Duke and the Signal would look like totally different people. Paralleling the contrast of yellow and black in his suit. Also, dark eyes are beautiful.

[tenitchyfingers]

do you ever write a longfic where the things you really care about are maybe 5% of the entire narration and everything else is just shit you have to write in order to set up the things you care about and justify them

[chaoticriderlessb]

Hirai: Let's play our game.

Spider: I'd try to run.

Hirai: Where would you go?

Spider: I'd tell someone.

Hirai: Who do you know? Come now, you're cleverer than that. I'd find you in five seconds flat.

Spider: I'd use the key.

Hirai: How would you get it?

Spider: Someday, you'll see.

Hirai: Is that a threat?

[spurbleu]

think it’s really funny to imagine the younger men of the 141 realizing that price is actually super good with women.

soap plays knight- shows off to gawking birds, kyle’s pretty boy eyes and sharp tongue garner plenty of attention, and all simon needs to do is sit in the middle of the bar, waiting till a sweet thing asks him ‘what a big man like him is doing alone?’

price isn’t as engaged. let’s his boys have fun, but for the most part prefers to hang back. enjoy his liquor and cigarettes- let them do their thing. course, doesn’t go unnoticed. which spurs their assumption it’s not a ‘he wont’ and instead a ‘he cant’.

“‘fraid they might not like you, capm’?”

“aye gaz, play nice. ye know ta old man’s sensitive.”

“lost his spark, i reckon.”

they rib him for weeks on end about being an old man, no game, out of his prime, ect ect. it’s all light and fun of course, and combat keeps them busy enough that the jokes start to be forgotten. doesn’t occur to them that price has just been biting his tongue since the first blow.

until- night off. pub lights, tallboys and pretty women. familiar scene, type of place that has been in nasty dreams for weeks. kyle and soap are assessing the room, and simon’s silently following along. it takes them a minute to realize they’re captain is gone- but not 10 seconds to find him again- with a sweet, gorgeous bird on his arm by the bar.

silently, they watch as he effortlessly charms her. they count how many times she laughs, how eager she is to hold his arm, how, within in minutes, they’re already cozied up on a booth, nursing beer and making eyes.

and why wouldn’t she? classically handsome, mature, cute smile, a rugged exterior with a gentle execution. it’s a no-brainer for her when he offers to ‘get out of here’, and hold the muscles that breech from his shirt. doesn’t catch the way he glances over to a corner of the pub as they make their leave, small smile tugging at the burs of his mustache as he clocks the shock of his men’s faces under low lighting.

soap and kyle’s jaw break, meanwhile simon lets out a barking laugh.

“old man’s still got it.”

needless to say, all three men said nothing about losing his charm at the next debrief.

working on the fanfic now,,,,,

[physalian]

How To Make Your Writing Less Stiff 5

Movement

Dredging this back up from way back.

Make sure your characters move, but not too much during heavy dialogue scenes. E.g. two characters sitting and talking—do humans just stare at each other with their arms lifeless and bodies utterly motionless during conversation? No? Then neither should your characters. Make them…

Gesture

Wave

Frown

Laugh

Cross their legs/their arms

Shift around to get comfortable

Pound the table

Roll their eyes

Point

Shrug

Touch their face/their hair

Wring their hands

Pick at their nails

Yawn

Stretch

Sniff/sniffle

Tap their fingers/drum

Bounce their feet

Doodle

Fiddle with buttons or jewelry

Scratch an itch

Touch their weapons/gadgets/phones

Check the time

Get up and sit back down

Move from chair to tabletop

The list goes on.

Bonus points if these are tics that serve to develop your character, like a nervous fiddler, or if one moves a lot and the other doesn’t—what does that say about the both of them? This is where “show don’t tell” really comes into play.

As in, you could say “he’s nervous” or you could show, “He fidgets, constantly glancing at the clock as sweat beads at his temples.”

This site is full of discourse on telling vs showing so I’ll leave it at that.

Epithets

In the Sci-fi WIP that shall never see the light of day, I had a flashback arc for one male character and his relationship with another male character. On top of that, the flashback character was a nameless narrator for Reasons.

Enter the problem: How would you keep track of two male characters, one who you can't name, and the other who does have a name, but you can’t oversaturate the narrative with it? I did a few things.

Nameless Narrator (written in 3rd person limited POV) was the only narrator for the flashback arc. I never switched to the boyfriend’s POV.

Boyfriend had only a couple epithets that could only apply to him, and halfway through their relationship, NN went from describing him as “the other prisoner” to “his cellmate” to “his partner” (which was also a double entendre). NN also switched from using BF’s full name to a nickname both in narration and dialogue.

BF had a title for NN that he used exclusively in dialogue, since BF couldn’t use his given name and NN hadn’t picked a new one for himself.

Every time the subject of the narrative switched, I started a new paragraph so “he” never described either character ambiguously mid-paragraph.

Is this an extreme example? Absolutely, but I pulled it off according to my betas.

The point of all this is this: Epithets shouldn’t just exist to substitute an overused name. Epithets de-personalize the subject if you use them incorrectly. If your narrator is thinking of their lover and describing that person without their name, then the trait they pick to focus on should be something equally important to them. In contrast, if you want to drive home how little a narrator thinks of somebody, using depersonalizing epithets helps sell that disrespect.

Fanfic tends to be the most egregious with soulless epithets like "the black-haired boy" that tell the reader absolutely nothing about how the narrator feels about that black-haired boy, espeically if they're doing so during a highly-emotional moment.

As in, NN and BF had one implied sex scene. Had I said “the other prisoner” that would have completely ruined the mood. He’s so much more than “the other prisoner” at that point in the story. “His partner,” since they were both a combat team and romantically involved, encompassed their entire relationship.

The epithet also changed depending on what mood or how hopeless NN saw their situation. He’d wax and wane over how close he believed them to be for Reasons. NN was a very reserved character who kept BF at a distance, afraid to go “all in” because he knew there was a high chance of BF not surviving this campaign. So NN never used “his lover”.

All to say, epithets carried the subtext of that flashback arc, when I had a character who would not talk about his feelings. I could show you the progression of their relationship through how the epithets changed.

I could show you whenever NN was being a big fat liar about his feelings when he said he's not in love, but his narration gave him away. I could show you the exact moment their relationship shifted from comrades to something more when NN switched mid-paragraph from "his cellmate" to "his partner" and when he took up BF's nickame exclusively in the same scene.

I do the same thing in Eternal Night when Elias, my protagonist, stops referring to Dorian as "it" and "the vampire" instead of his name the moment they collide with a much more dangerous vampire, so jarringly that Elias notices in his own narration—the point of it being so explicit is that this degredation isn't automatic, it's something he has to conciously do, when everyone else in his clan wouldn't think twice about dehumanizing them.

—

Any literary device should be used with intent if you want those layers in your work. The curtains are rarely just blue. Whether it’s a simile with a deliberate comparison or an epithet with deliberate connotations, your readers will pick up on the subtext, I promise.

[yamujiburo]

Ketchum vs. Ketchum! Showdown in Cerulean City!

Woo! Finale time! I wanted to make this final battle feel special and give it more substance than I could do with just a comic. So! I got the help of @cyberwulf to write out this ending in fanfic form! Check it out here on AO3 if you prefer! If not, the journey continues below the cut~

prev / END

1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5 / 6 / 7 / 8 / [X]

James Sidestory / Meowth Sidestory

A lot has happened since our Poké Moms began their journey. After a rocky start…

“*SQUAWK*”

…they’ve managed to catch some new Pokémon…

“Run! Run! Run!”

…in their own way.

“What a cute baby! You know, I have a son, too!”

With their month on the road almost up, Delia had just one more thing she wanted to do…

“I want to beat the Cerulean City Gym!”

But little did Delia know, there was a surprise waiting for her in Cerulean City!

“MOM??? JESSIE???”

“Let’s have a double battle! You and Ash versus Jessie and I!”

“You’re on! But I’m not going easy on you just cuz you’re family!”

“…What’s going on?”

Poké Mom Adventures

EP009

Ketchum vs Ketchum! Showdown in Cerulean City!

The water of the Cerulean gym battlefield glistened in the sunshine streaming through its crystal glass roof. Both teams gazed at each other with steely determination (and some lingering confusion, in Misty’s case) as above them, the Drone Rotom announced the rules.

“This will be a double battle between Gym Leader Misty and Champion Ash, and the challengers Delia and Jessie.” It projected a holographic image of both teams. “For today’s battle, each trainer may use two Pokémon. The battle is over when all of one team’s Pokémon can no longer battle.”

“All right!” Misty declared. “This is an official League battle for the Cascade badge!”

“And bragging rights!” Jessie added with a smirk.

“We’ll see about that!” Ash retorted. Misty glanced at him, taking in his clenched fists and gritted teeth. She’d seen Ash determined before, but… there was something here that she was missing. However, with the Drone Rotom hovering expectantly overhead, finding out what that something was would have to wait.

“Come out – Corsola!”

The Coral Pokémon landed on the rock in front of her, eagerly crying its name.

“This is a water-themed gym, so I’ll go with a Water-Type,” Ash remarked. “Oshawott, I choose you!”

“That’s the spirit, Ash!” Misty exclaimed. “It’s the job of a Gym Leader to help trainers learn type advantage and weaknesses by specialising in one kind of Pokémon, and around here that’s Water-Types!”

“Water, huh?” Jessie frowned as she considered the three Pokémon she had on hand. “Well, I don’t want my delicate little Ziggy to get her fur wet.” With a flourish, she tossed a Pokéball high in the air. “Go, Venomoth!”

The Poison Moth Pokémon emerged, hovering over the water.

“It’s a shame we don’t have any Grass or Electric-types,” Delia mused. “I guess we’ll just have to do our best with what we have.” Pushing her bangs out of her face, she called, “I choose you!”

Ash and Misty’s jaws dropped as the light from Delia’s Pokéball coalesced into a very large, very stern-looking Kangaskhan.

“I didn’t know your mom had such a strong Pokémon,” Misty whispered.

“Neither did I,” Ash whispered back. Movement at the corner of his eye caught his attention and he looked down at his starter Pokémon. “Something wrong, Pikachu?”

“Pika…”

Pikachu gazed across the water at Kangaskhan, ears and tail up, alert to… something. But before anyone could figure out what had caught his attention, there was a small cry.

“Kangaskhan!”

The baby squirmed, spooked by the glistening water lapping all around the rock. She buried her face in her mother’s belly and cried again. Cradling her young protectively, Kangaskhan gave Delia an apologetic look.

“Oh, of course!” Delia exclaimed. “I’m so sorry. Kangaskhan, return.” Cupping her hands around her mouth, she called across the battlefield. “That doesn’t count as one of my Pokémon, does it?”

“Of course not, Ms. Ketchum!” Misty shouted back. “Please choose another Pokémon!”

“If she’s got one,” Ash said with a confident smirk. “I’m betting she’ll send out Mimey.”

“I choose you… Clefairy!”

“Looks like you bet wrong, Ash,” Misty laughed as Ash stared in surprise at the Fairy Pokémon.

Above them, the Drone Rotom moved into position.

“Begin!”

“All right, Oshawott!” Ash called out. “Open up with an Aqua Jet!”

With a determined cry, Oshawott blasted a jet of water across the field, hitting Clefairy square in the belly and knocking the Fairy Pokémon off the rock and into the water.

“Ash Ketchum!” Delia exclaimed reproachfully. “That wasn’t very nice!”

Thrown off-guard, Ash gulped. “S-sorry!” (Oh man - I can’t believe I’m actually battling my mom!)

On the opposite side of the battlefield, a wet and bedraggled Clefairy clambered back up on the rock ridge, scowling at her attacker.

“Shake it off, Clefairy!” Delia urged as her Pokémon did just that, sending a fine shower of water droplets flying from her pink fur. “Use Disarming Voice!”

With a deep breath, Clefairy shot a vortex of pink hearts towards Oshawott, taking the Sea Otter Pokémon by surprise and knocking him into the water.

“Good work, Deerling!” Jessie shouted triumphantly. “Now it’s my turn!” She pointed at Corsola. “Venomoth, use Poison Sting!”

Venomoth hovered uncertainly for a few moments, then looked back at her.

“It doesn’t look like Venomoth knows that move, honey,” Delia remarked.

“Well, Dustox knew that move!” Jessie protested. “Venomoth should know it too, aren’t they both Bug-types?”

Venomoth just blinked at her.

“You really don’t know what moves your Pokémon knows?” Misty asked incredulously.

“Of course I do, just – just let me think!” Jessie spluttered, clenching her fists. “All right, Venomoth – use Gust!”

Venomoth didn’t move.

“Whirlwind!” Jessie tried. “Psybeam! …Tackle?”

Venomoth looked back and forth between Jessie and the battlefield as it fluttered about agitatedly, utterly confused by the barrage of unfamiliar orders.

“This is just sad,” Misty muttered, getting a nod of agreement from Ash. Raising her voice, she called out, “Corsola! Use Spike Cannon!”

Corsola glowed, and a split second later a shower of glowing white spikes slammed into Venomoth, driving it backwards towards the trainer box.

“Oh, no!” Delia groaned in dismay, wringing her hands. “Maybe we should’ve practiced with our new Pokémon before coming here!”

“We’re not giving up!” Jessie snarled, clenching her fists. “Venomoth! Get back out there!”

With a trill, Venomoth shook off the spikes, and floated towards its opponents again.

“Corsola!” Misty called. “Hit it with another Spike Cannon!”

Corsola began to glow.

“Well don’t just hover there!” Jessie barked out. “It’s about to attack again!” Venomoth looked back at her, and Jessie gestured angrily towards the battlefield. “Just do something! Anything!”

Once more, glowing white spikes shot towards Venomoth. This time, however, Venomoth dove towards the attack, sweeping its wings in front of itself at the last minute. Blue blades of light cut through the barrage of spikes, one hitting Corsola and driving it back.

“That’s Air Slash!” Ash exclaimed.

“Air Slash, eh?” Jessie shot her opponents a triumphant smirk. “Venomoth! Use Air Slash on that pitiful pink Pokémon again!”

“Hang in there, Corsola!” Misty called as her Pokémon was driven back for a second time. “Use Recover!”

“Don’t let it recover, Venomoth!” Jessie yelled. “Air Slash again!”

As her Pokémon geared up for another attack, she noticed Delia gazing at her in rapture.

“You’re so ferocious when you battle, Smoochum,” Delia remarked dreamily. She lowered her voice, waggling her eyebrows. “It’s kinda hot.”

Jessie blushed and giggled. “Baaabe, not in front of the twerps.”

Misty wrinkled her nose in disgust. “…Smoochum?”

“Freak out later, Misty!” Ash yelled. Venomoth was bearing down on Corsola, and the Coral Pokémon didn’t have much left. “Oshawott! Use Hydro Pump on Venomoth to protect Corsola!”

Leaping high into the air, Oshawott sent a powerful jet of water directly at Jessie’s Venomoth. With a cry, the Poison Moth hit the floor between Jessie and Delia, bounced once, and fainted.

“Hey, no fair!” Jessie bellowed, stamping her foot. “I was distracted!” She recalled Venomoth with a scowl. “I ought to ground you for making me look bad!”

“This is really weird,” Misty mumbled.

“You have no idea,” Ash sighed wearily.

“All right, you big blue blob,” Jessie growled to her faithful Patient Pokémon, “get out there and let’s win this thing!”

Saluting, Wobbuffet waddled forward, straight into the water. Jessie pinched the bridge of her nose as Wobbuffet awkwardly clambered up onto the protruding rock.

“Wobbles can’t attack unless he’s attacked first,” Delia murmured to herself. “Oshawott is strong, and Corsola can use Recover to gain back health. That means I’ve got to make this next move count!” She looked to Clefairy, wet and winded but not out of the battle. It was risky, but…

“Clefairy! Use Metronome!”

“Metronome?!” Misty exclaimed as Clefairy began to move her fingers hypnotically back and forth. “Now anything can happen!”

“Hold tight, everybody!” Ash called, just as the Fairy Pokémon’s fingers turned white.

Razor-sharp leaves whipped through the air, striking Oshawott and Corsola. The Grass-Type move was too much for the dual Rock/Water Type, and Corsola collapsed into the water, fainted. Oshawott was driven back against the rock ridge, and Ash held his breath, but the Drone Rotom only counted Corsola out.

“Oshawott! You hanging in there, buddy?”

With a grimace, the Sea Otter Pokémon gave him a determined nod. “Osha!”

“Ha!” Jessie cried triumphantly. “Now we’re even!” She clenched her fists, calling tauntingly across the battlefield. “Who’s next, twerpette? Togepi? Psyduck?”

“She sure is cocky for being down to just Wobbuffet,” Ash muttered.

“Not for long,” Misty replied with a smirk. She plucked her second Pokéball from her hip.

“Go – Gyarados!”

Delia’s eyes widened and Jessie took several steps back as the gigantic Pokémon appeared in the water. It glowered down at both trainers, making Delia swallow hard.

(Now’s not the time to lose my nerve! Gyarados is just a Pokémon like any other. All I have to do is-)

“Hey!” Jessie exclaimed angrily. “No fair using such a powerful Pokémon! What, are Staryu and Starmie at the Pokémon Centre or something?!”

Taken aback, Misty gaped at the former Team Rocket member in disbelief. “Since when do you care about playing fair?”

“Since you decided to use that monstrosity on a first-time trainer!” Jessie retorted with a shake of her fist. “That’s cheating!”

Misty paused, almost second-guessing her choice of Pokémon, when she remembered who she was dealing with. Squaring her shoulders, she shot back, “You’re not a first-time trainer!”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Ash muttered.

“I heard that!” Jessie bawled.

“It’s okay, honey,” Delia murmured, placing her hand on Jessie’s shoulder. “We can beat them. We just need to use strategy!”

“Gyarados!” Misty called out. Jessie may not have been the best trainer, and her track record with him was hit or miss, but Wobbuffet could reflect almost any attack. It might just have been luck, but Clefairy’s Metronome had taken out Corsola and left Oshawott just barely hanging on. There was only one choice of target.

“Use Hurricane on Clefairy, now!”

Rearing back, Gyarados shot a powerful blast of air directly at the Fairy Pokémon, sending her flying back to the trainer box.

“Oh no!” Delia cried. She knelt by her stricken Pokémon’s side, but it was obvious even without Drone Rotom saying so that Clefairy couldn’t continue. “You did a wonderful job, Clefairy.” Recalling her Pokémon, she rose, pushed her bangs out of her eyes, and called her second Pokémon.

“Mimey, I choose you!”

Ash clenched his fists. No more surprises – he knew what Mimey was capable of. Oshawott was tough, but he’d taken a lot of damage. If the Sea Otter Pokémon only had one move left, then Ash had to make it count.

“Oshawott! Hit Mimey with Aqua Jet!”

“Mimey, dodge it!” Delia cried out.

The Barrier Pokémon leapt high in the air, leaving Ash to watch, powerless, as Aqua Jet splashed harmlessly on the ground between his mother and Jessie. But before he could call out another attack –

“Now, Mimey, Focus Punch on Oshawott!”

There was no time for Oshawott to get out of the way. Mimey dove straight down, fist outstretched, and scored a direct hit. Both Pokémon vanished underwater. All four trainers held their breath. After a few seconds, Mimey burst out of the water, effortlessly leaping onto the rock. A moment later Oshawott floated to the surface, fainted.

“Good work, Oshawott,” Ash murmured as he recalled his Pokémon. He turned to Pikachu. “Looks like my mom’s a tougher trainer than I thought. You ready, Pikachu?”

The yellow mouse nodded, one tiny fist raised. “Pika!”

“You be nice to us now, Pikachu!” Delia cheered brightly.

Jessie was less optimistic.

“Babe, this isn’t looking good,” she murmured urgently. “I’ve been beaten by that Pikachu a zillion times! And that Gyarados looks strong. And mean! I don’t know if…”

She trailed off as the other woman took her hands.

“Now you listen to me, Jessie Ketchum.” Delia gazed into her eyes, a look of fierce determination on her face. “A zillion battles. A zillion losses. Against that very Pikachu. And you never gave up. So you’re not gonna give up now! Okay?”

Jessie stared back at her. Time seemed to stand still. Delia’s fingers were warm on her own as her words of encouragement hung in the air.

“Jessie… Ketchum?”

With the briefest of nods, Delia turned to face their opponents.

“Ash honey, don’t you hold back just because I’m your mom!” she called. “We’re going to give it our all, even if we lose!”

“She’s a lot like you, Ash,” Misty laughed. As Ash tugged the brim of his hat down to hide his blush, she raised her voice and called to the challengers. “You’re doing great, Ms. Ketchum! I’m really impressed by your abilities as a trainer. Now show me you’re worthy of the Cascade badge!”

“Hey!” Jessie yelled indignantly. “What am I, chopped liver?! My Venomoth pushed your Corsola to the brink!”

Misty grimaced. This was all still too strange – Jessie was a good guy? Jessie and Ash’s mom were… partners? She struggled for something positive to say about Jessie’s performance so far.

“Uh – yeah!” she managed. “It was, uh, really great how you figured out that one move.”

Jessie put her hands on her hips. “Ugh, could you sound any more insincere?!”

With a growl of impatience, Ash cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled across the battlefield. “Hey! Are we gonna battle or what?”

“Oh, we’re battling, twerp,” Jessie shot back. “And we’re gonna win!”

Ash grinned. “You ready, Pikachu?” The yellow Pokémon turned to look at his trainer. Ash pointed. “Quick attack!”

“Ha!” Jessie scoffed as Pikachu zigzagged along the rock ridge. “Wobbuffet, use Counter!”

Pikachu leaped forward…

“On Mimey!”

Delia and Jessie gasped as Pikachu pivoted and went straight for the Barrier Pokémon. Taken by surprise, he took the full brunt of the attack, losing his balance and hitting the water.

“A fake out!” Delia exclaimed. She beamed at her son with pride. “That was so smart of you, honey! You had us completely fooled!”

“Baaabe!” Jessie hissed. “I get that you care about him – I do too – but right now he’s the enemy!”

Delia tapped her fist against her head, grinning nervously. “Oh, right!”

“This is hurting my brain,” Misty groaned.

“How do you think I feel?” Ash grumbled.

Delia took a moment to centre herself and assess the situation. Pikachu didn’t have a Type advantage, but his Electric attacks were powerful – not to mention that Mimey was still wet. Of course, using them ran the risk of electrifying the entire battlefield, including Gyarados, but only one Pokémon needed to be left standing in order for that Pokémon’s team to win.

“Mimey!” she commanded. “Use Psychic on Pikachu!”

“Mr Mime!”

Mimey fixed Pikachu with an intense stare, his eyes and hands glowing blue. Blue light enveloped the yellow mouse as he was lifted into the air. Pikachu strained and struggled, but couldn’t break free.

Ash groaned in exasperation.

“Misty, go for Mimey!” he called. “If you weaken him, maybe Pikachu can break free. Plus, he’s a lot stronger than Wobbuffet!”

Misty nodded. “Right!”

“Hey!” Jessie objected. “Just because it’s true doesn’t mean you have to say it!” She shook her fist at them. “I raised you better than that, Ash Ketchum!”

“Wha – ” Ash took a step back, flabbergasted. “You didn’t raise me at all!”

“The heck I didn’t!” Jessie retorted. “Who kept an eye on you while you twerped your way through eight regions, huh?!”

Misty rubbed her temples. The whole situation was giving her a headache.

“Gyarados!”

The Atrocious Pokémon stirred itself and looked her way.

“Use Crunch on Mr. Mime, now!”

“Oh no, not Crunch!” Delia fretted, as Gyarados reared back, a sinister purple aura swirling around its fangs. “That’s a Dark-Type move!”

“Wobbuffet!” Jessie barked. “Get between Mimey and Gyarados and use Counter!”

Saluting, Wobbuffet leaped in front of Mimey, his body outlined in orange light. Crunch hit, hard, and bounced back twice as hard. Both Gyarados and Wobbuffet recoiled from the damage.

“Wobbles!” Delia cried out, as Mimey caught Wobbuffet in his arms.

“Don’t you quit on me now, Wobbuffet!” Jessie shouted.

Wobbuffet saluted weakly as Mimey pushed him back onto his paws. The distraction worked, and Pikachu dropped back to the rock, freed from Psychic.

“Keep the pressure on, Pikachu!” Ash yelled. “Use Iron Tail on Mimey, now!”

“Quick, Mimey!” Delia shouted as Pikachu somersaulted through the air, tail glowing white. “Use Reflect!”

Pikachu hit the invisible barrier and flew backwards, landing in the water.

“Gyarados!” Misty commanded. “Use Crunch again!”

“Mimey, keep using Reflect!” Delia shouted. “Don’t let them in!” She had to think. Poor Wobbles, he didn’t have much left – one more shot from that big Gyarados and that would be it. Not to mention that if Crunch hit Mimey, the battle would be over! She’d completely forgotten Gyarados could learn that move! Oh, maybe she should’ve used Zaggy instead…

Mimey obediently continued to use Reflect as Gyarados and Pikachu attacked from either side. Slowly the invisible barriers began to box them in, till Mimey and Wobbuffet were crowded together on the rock.

“Babe!” Jessie urged. “We have to do something or we’re gonna lose!”

“I know!” Delia groaned. “I just…” She cupped her face in her hands, pulling down on her cheeks. “…I don’t know!”

“Ms Ketchum!”

Delia lifted her head.

“You can’t let us back you into a corner!” Misty called. “Use your environment to find a way out!”

Ash shot her a glare. “Hey, whose side are you on?!”

“It’s my job as a Gym leader to help trainers to learn,” Misty explained with a smile. “Did you forget?”

“You didn’t help me when I battled you for the first time!” Ash replied indignantly, poking his thumb into his chest.

Misty glowered at him.

“That’s because you still owed me a new bike, Ash Ketchum!”

“Aaagh!” Ash placed both hands on his head, tugging his hat down. “Can’t you let that go already? It got repaired, didn’t it?”

While their opponents bickered, Delia had taken Misty’s words to heart.

“Use the environment…” she mused. There was only one place Mimey and Wobbles could go – but first they had to do something about the double attacks coming their way.

“Jessie!” she hissed, beckoning her partner to come closer. “Can you have Wobbles use Counter?”

Jessie looked at Wobbuffet, sweating nervously as he stood behind Mimey. She nodded.

“Okay,” Delia replied. She whispered quickly in the other woman’s ear. Jessie grinned, then straightened up.

“Wobbuffet! Use Counter on both those attacks!”

Without any hesitation, Wobbuffet moved in front of Mimey, body once more enveloped in an orange glow. Crunch and Iron Tail came back double on Gyarados and Pikachu, sending the two flying backwards. Both Pokémon landed hard on the rock, Gyarados almost wrapping around it with the force of the blow.

“On your feet, Pikachu!” Ash called. “It’s not over yet! …Huh?”

He blinked at the empty battlefield. Mimey and Wobbuffet had both disappeared. Ash tensed as he scoured the water for any sign of the enemy Pokémon, but the surface was still settling from the last bout of attacks. The sunlight streaming through the roof didn’t help either – it made the rippling water glitter.

Misty spotted movement a second too late.

“Look out-”

In tandem, Mimey and Wobbuffet burst through the surface, taking up positions either side of Gyarados and Pikachu, trapping their opponents between them.

“Good work, you two!” Delia cheered. She pointed dramatically. “Now, Mimey – use Psychic on both of them!”

Once more, Mimey’s eyes and hands glowed. Both Gyarados and Pikachu rose into the air, enveloped in blue light.

“Great strategy, Ms. Ketchum!” Misty called, earning a dirty look from Ash which she ignored. “There’s no point going for Wobbuffet – he’ll just Counter our attacks again.”

“Right,” Ash agreed. “We’ve gotta take out Mimey!” He raised his voice. “Pikachu!”

Misty did likewise. “Gyarados!”

Delia grinned. “Just as I thought.” She looked at her partner. “Get ready with Mirror Coat!”

Jessie blinked in confusion. “…Huh?”

“Thunderbolt –”

“Hydro Pump –”

“On Mimey!” both young trainers yelled in unison.

“Mimey!” Delia called, just as both Pokémon charged their attacks. “Drop them, use Light Screen and aim at Wobbles!”

“Aim at WHO?!” Jessie exclaimed.

There was no time to explain. Everything turned on a split second. Pikachu and Gyarados began to fall through the air. Several volts of electricity and a powerful torrent of water hit Mimey’s Light Screen and barrelled towards Wobbuffet.

The diabolical beauty of Delia’s devious plan suddenly caught up with Jessie. That pair of pathetic Pokémon were in for a –

“Now, honey!”

Jessie almost fumbled the command.

“M-Mirror Coat!”

Wobbuffet glowed, shrouded in a reflective aura. Everything seemed to slow down. The attacks hit. They bounced back at Mimey. Pikachu and Gyarados fell. Ash’s mouth opened in a silent noooo.

The timing was perfect.

Gyarados and Pikachu fell in front of Mimey, taking the full brunt of Thunderbolt and Hydro Pump, doubled by Mirror Coat. The sheer force of the attacks drove them along the surface of the water, causing huge plumes of water to rise into the air either side of them. The battlefield disappeared in a shroud of surf and spray.

“Pikachu!” Ash cried out.

All four trainers held their breath as the mist began to clear.

Jessie cried out in dismay on seeing Wobbuffet floating belly-up in the water. Ash groaned on spotting Pikachu doing likewise. Draped over the rock, Gyarados lifted its head weakly, then dropped it again.

Delia scanned the water, a smile spreading across her face as Mimey swam to the rock and clambered up, standing tall with a cry of, “Mr. Mime!”

“Wobbuffet, Pikachu, and Gyarados are unable to battle,” the Drone Rotom declared, as Ash sank to his knees. “The winners are the challengers, Delia and Jessie!”

“I… I can’t believe this…” Ash moaned.

“We…” Jessie couldn’t stop staring at the battlefield, Drone Rotom’s words ringing in her ears. “…we won?” She looked to Delia, and the joyful look on her face confirmed it. “We WON!!!”

Delia shrieked as Jessie caught hold of her and lifted her high in the air, doing a twirl before setting her back on her feet and peppering her face with kisses. “Hahahaha!” She turned to their opponents, pulling down on one eyelid while sticking her tongue out. “Suck it, twe – I mean, Ash and Misty! I knew this day would come sooner or later!”

“Jessica, I know you’re happy, but don’t be a bad winner,” Delia chided gently. “Magnanimity in victory goes a long way.”

“But baaaabe!” Jessie whined. “I’ve never had a victory this magnificent before!”

Delia just smiled and gave her a peck on the lips. “I think poor Wobbles wants you,” she remarked, nodding to the battlefield. “We’ll need to get him to a Pokémon Centre with Venomoth and Clefairy.”

Jessie nodded and went to haul Wobbuffet out of the water.

“Come on, you,” she grunted as she dragged the Patient Pokémon back onto dry land. Briefly she removed her cap and wiped the sweat from her brow. Fine, so she couldn’t taunt the twerps any more. Victory still tasted pretty sweet.

In her arms, Wobbuffet stirred and smiled weakly up at her. Jessie couldn’t help but smile back.

“How about that?” she murmured to him. “You’re a winner, Wobbuffet. I bet you can’t wait to tell the others.”

He managed a salute and a quiet “Wobba…” before Jessie recalled him to his Pokéball.

Ash, meanwhile, remained on his knees in the trainer box. “I can’t believe we lost to my mom.”

“You gotta admit, that last strategy was a thing of beauty,” Misty replied with a smile. She’d made her way out to the rock and was cradling Gyarados’s head, absently rubbing its crest. The big Pokémon opened its eyes and let out a quiet rumble. “I guess now we know where you get your battling skills from, champ!”

Stepping out of her sneakers, Delia carefully negotiated the slippery rock and fished Pikachu out of the water. A couple of vigorous rubs from his head to his tail, and the Electric Mouse Pokémon opened his eyes.

“You were great, Pikachu,” Delia murmured. She tickled him under his chin, getting a weak “Chaaa” in response. She made her way back to the side of the battlefield to find Ash, Misty and Jessie waiting. “You were great too, honey.”

Ash managed a smile as she handed Pikachu to him. “Thanks, Mom.” He gasped as he was pulled into a hug.

“That was such a fun battle!” Delia exclaimed. She loosened her hold just enough to look at him. “I can see why you like this so much.”

“Watch out, Ash,” Misty teased. “You might just have a new rival on your hands!”

Ash let out a distressed yelp.

“Oh no, I don’t have time for that,” Delia assured him with a wave of her hand. As Ash sighed with relief, she cupped his cheek and tilted his head up to look at him. “But travelling around this past month and battling with you today… it’s made me feel a little bit closer to you.”

Ash blushed, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly.

“Aw, Mom,” he mumbled with a grin.

“Ahem.”

Ash and Delia turned to see Misty holding out a Cascade badge.

“This is yours, Ms. Ketchum,” the Gym Leader declared. “You made the battlefield, your Pokémon and their moves work to your advantage. I’m impressed!”

“Oh, you’re too kind, really,” Delia replied, blushing as she accepted the badge. Its blue surface seemed to glitter in the sunlight streaming in from the roof. “I’ll treasure this, always. Thank you.”

“That’s how you win a badge fair and square,” Misty teased, shooting a wink Ash’s way.

The Champion rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, whatever.”

“Aren’t you forgetting something?”

All three turned to see Jessie holding out her hand.

“What about me?” she demanded. “The perfect Pokémon battle partner? Trainer of vicious Venomoth and wild Wobbuffet? Where’s my badge?”

Misty sighed. Jessie had been on the winning team, and she had won a badge fair and square, but the whole situation was still bizarre.

“I’ll give you a badge if you explain what all…” She waved her hand between Jessie and Delia. “…this is about.”

“Delia and I dating,” Jessie scoffed with a shrug. “It’s not that complicated.”

“I got that part,” Misty shot back irritatedly, “I just…” She looked from Jessie, standing with her arms crossed, to Ms. Ketchum, who had one hand on Jessie’s hip, to Ash, who looked like he was hoping the floor would open up and swallow him. “…you know what, never mind.” Reaching into her pocket, she took out a second Cascade badge.

“I can’t believe this is happening, but… you earned this!”

Jessie let out a little cry of joy as Misty put the badge into her hand.

“Oh, Deerling, look how pretty it is!” she gushed. “Do you think maybe we could just get the prettiest Gym badges?”

“I don’t see why not,” Delia replied. “With James to run the restaurant, I can take vacations more often!”

“James is –” Misty glared at Ash, who pulled the brim of his cap down and giggled nervously. “We’re going to the Pokémon Centre and then you’re telling me what’s been going on, Ash Ketchum!”

“Let’s all go to the Pokémon Centre,” Delia suggested. “Our Pokémon battled hard today, they deserve a good rest.”

It wasn’t long before Nurse Joy’s tender care had Venomoth, Corsola, Oshawott, Clefairy, Wobbuffet, Gyarados and Pikachu feeling like their old selves again. Delia squeezed Jessie’s hand, murmuring “that’ll be you one day, Smoochum” as they watched Joy work.

“Well, we should get going,” Delia declared once they had their Pokémon back.

“We were going to stay and have dinner, Ms. Ketchum,” Misty said. She eyed Jessie reluctantly, but made the offer anyway. “…You’re welcome to join us.”

“That’s sweet of you, Misty, but we’ve been away long enough,” Delia replied, to both kids’ relief. “It’s time we headed home. Thank you both so much for such an amazing battle.” She hugged Ash tightly. “Don’t stay away too long, honey.”

“You know I won’t, Mom,” Ash replied, blushing. He shot Misty a grin. “I’ll be home right after I kick Misty’s butt in our rematch!”

“Then I’ll see you soon,” Delia murmured. She let go of her son and gave Misty a quick hug and a wink. “Try not to beat him too badly!”

“Hey!” Ash exclaimed indignantly.

Delia stepped back, joining her girlfriend near the door of the Pokémon Centre. She gave her a look and nodded to both kids. With a sigh, Jessie trudged up to Ash and gave him a stiff hug.

“See you at home, kid,” she mumbled. Letting go, she turned to Misty. “Thanks for the battle and the badge, I guess...?”

The two gazed at each other for a few awkward moments, then Jessie took a step closer, slowly lifting her arms.

“Aah!” Misty hurriedly moved back, holding her hands up in front of her. “I don’t think I’m there yet.”

Jessie dropped her arms with a huge sigh of relief. “Great! Me neither.” She offered her hand instead, and the Gym Leader shook it.

Ash and Misty stepped outside the Pokémon Centre to see them off, their goodbyes ringing in the air as Delia and Jessie got on the road. Jessie slung her arm around her girlfriend’s shoulder.

“Happy, babe?”

“Yes and no,” Delia sighed. “I’m sad my journey’s over, but I couldn’t be happier about how it went. I made three wonderful new friends, foiled a nasty poacher, and that battle today –” She clenched her fists in front of her. “ – I never felt so alive! I can’t wait to tell Professor Oak and James and Meowth all about it!” She slipped an arm around Jessie’s waist. “I’m so glad you talked me into this.”

Jessie preened. “Oh it was nothing, babe, I –”

She broke off as Delia took hold of her hands.

“Thank you for making my dreams come true,” the other woman whispered. Jessie’s heart caught in her throat as she saw tears shining in Delia’s eyes. “Not just today, but every day we’re together.”

Jessie smiled, warmth blooming in her chest.

“It’s the least I could do,” she replied. Delia deserved more, so much more, for putting up with her, believing in her, loving her. Not to mention all she’d done for James and Meowth too. Maybe one day –

- but before Jessie could continue the thought, Delia leaned up and pulled her into a tender kiss.

THE END

“Oh, I can’t wait to get home to our nice comfy bed!”

“Ugh, me too. I hate sleeping on the ground.”

“…who said anything about sleeping?”

[s0dium]

Douchebag

A/n: This is honestly the BEST fic I've ever written! I took a lot from prompts I found on this site and the smut scene is inspired from a book called "The Kiss Quotient." (It was just so damn good). This fanfic is also inspired by my original fanfic, "Douchebag" Tengen x Reader. ALSO, I AM WORKING ON YUTA FICS, SO DON'T WORRY! Word count: 3.5k

Synopsis: Gojo Satrou was a man of many things. It would be hard to find anyone in the jujutsu world who hadn’t heard of his name before, whether that be through his many wins in battle or his reputation as an A-class player. Some describe him as eccentric, and others (mostly girls) describe him as irresistible. You? Well, you on the other hand would describe him as nothing else than an utter, complete,  douchebag. Warnings: Enemies to lovers,  teasing, fingering, intense kissing for a sec, squirting, use of pet names, belly bulge, cervix fucking, breeding kink, virgin!reader, multiple orgasms, unprotected sex, choking ~

You scoffed, watching through the classroom window as a clearly frustrated old man stormed out of the building, no doubt a higher up. No doubt the work of Gojo Satoru. "God I hate him." You hissed, turning to face a dozing-off Shoko and your other friend Haibara. The classroom you sat in was almost empty, bathed in the soft light of midday filtering through large windows. Sparse shadows stretch across the well-worn wooden floor. Rows of desks, mostly unoccupied, face a dusty chalkboard at the front. "Who Satoru?" Shoko yawned, leaning into the palm of her hand to face you. Haibara lets out a loud chuckle. "Why? Because he's an ass to higher-ups?" He nods to the window and you click your tongue against the rough of your mouth. "No, it's because he is an ass in general. His whole 'holier than thou' attitude, and don't get me started on the way he treats girls." You practically shiver as you remember the time you saw some poor girl from Kyoto Jujutsu High profess her love to the white hair man, only to run away sobbing. "I swear to god it's like he expects us to kiss the floor that he walks on, he's.... infuriating" "Who's infuriating?" Oh god, you knew that stupidly deep voice anywhere. You whipped around to find yourself face to face with the very tall white-haired man you were talking about; a shit-eating grin spread across his infuriatingly handsome face.

“You couldn't be talking about me, could you?” Satoru's voice dripped faux shock and you rolled your eyes.

“Well you know what they say, speak of the devil and he shall appear.” You spat.

“That must be why you love using that pretty mouth of yours to talk about me so much.” Satoru lowered himself to close the provoking height difference between the two of you until your noses were inches away from touching. “Cause ya love having me around  doncha.”

In that moment you have to conjure up every ounce of self-restraint to not spit in his face there and then, and luckily your friends catch the drift. "Hey Satoru! What are you doing here?" Perked up Haibara who reached out his hand to dap Gojo up. "Well, Suguru and I are heading for a night out today, small club, and I thought, out of the kindness of my heart," You scoff and Gojo merely grins and continues, "I'd invite you all. Drink on me of course." As Satrou's invitation lingered in the air, you noticed Shoko's ears perk up. Her curiosity was piqued, a subtle lift of her eyebrows betraying her interest. You bit your tongue, the taste of reluctance sharp against your teeth. The idea of going anywhere with Satrou was far from appealing, but knowing your friends might join made it harder to outright refuse.

You crossed your arms defensively, leaning back slightly as you fixed Satrou with a skeptical look. "And why would you want me there?"

Satrou's lips curled into a half-smirk, his eyes lighting up with a mischievous glint."You're annoying, I'll give you that," He took a casual step closer, and leaned in closer, his voice lowering to a conspiratorial whisper, "but I never said you weren't fun."

His words, intended to irk you, did their job well. You glared at him sharply, the frustration evident in your furrowed brows and the hard set of your jaw.

Satrou chuckled.

“Great, I’ll take that as a yes then, I'll text you guys the details.” He turns around to walk out of the classroom. “See you guys there!”

There was a silence as you all watched Satrou walk away before Haibara turns to look at you. “So are you going to go y/n? Come on it will be so much fun!”

“Yeah no way in hell.”

~ You were a liar. You were a liar because here you were, leaning over the counter of a bar in a club that was far from "small." The nightclub was a pulsing, chaotic hive of activity. Neon lights flashed in syncopation with the deafening throb of electronic dance music that shook the very air. The club was jam-packed with bodies moving rhythmically, the heat from the mass of humanity palpable as the scent of sweat and sweet perfumes mingled. The bar surface was sticky under your arms, and the occasional spill from a too-hastily poured drink added to the chaos of sounds and smells around you. You lazily stirred the thin red straw into your drink, trying to politely ignore the creep who wouldn't stop talking to you.

Somehow, in the maze of gyrating bodies and blinding strobe lights, you had lost both Shoko and Haibara, leaving you stranded at the mercy of this clueless conversationalist. Despite the roar of bass and the chatter of dozens of conversations, his words seemed to bore into your ears, relentless and unyielding. He leaned in closer than necessary, trying to make himself heard over the club's cacophony, not realizing or perhaps not caring, that you were more interested in plotting an escape than in anything he had to say. "And might I say you look gorgeous tonight." It took everything you had not to scoff at this creep's words, but before you should shut the man down, you felt an arm wrap around you. "Everything alright love?" Oh god. You knew that voice anywhere. As you turned, you were met by Satrou's piercing blue eyes, their color vivid even behind stylish rectangular sunglasses. The multicolor flashing lights overhead caught in the threads of Satrou’s light blue button-up, making it shimmer subtly, and the fabric clung just right to his broad shoulders and tapered waist, hinting at the well-defined physique beneath. You hated the fact that your brain immediately noted how damn good he looked. His arm was wrapped around your waist drawing you close and you had to bite your tongue from frowning at the pet name he had given you As he leaned in, his voice was low, a soft murmur over the noise of the club, "This guy bothering you baby?" His tone was teasing, and you could detect the challenge in it, as if daring you to admit that his closeness and pet names affected you just as much as he knew it did. "Of course I'm fine baby!" You smile brightly and for a second you think Satrou looked a bit taken aback. If playing along got you out of this situation so be it. "This guy, I'm sorry, what's your name?" You glance back at the creep who had turned bright red. "I'm sorry, excuse me." You watched as the man disappeared into the throng of the bustling crowd, your attention fixed until he was well out of sight. Only then did you turn back to Satrou, the false warmth on your face instantly transforming into a cold, hard glare.

"Thanks for that, but you can get your hand off me now," you said, your voice icy as you tried to wriggle out of his hold. Despite your efforts, Satrou’s grip on your waist remained firm, unyielding.

"And why should I? I think we made a fantastic couple," Satrou cooed, a teasing lilt in his voice. His eyes sparkled with amusement, clearly enjoying the moment far more than you.

You rolled your eyes, exasperation seeping through. "You really think I would fall for something like that?"

"Why? Did you?" he probed further, his smile widening, eyes searching yours for any sign of genuine affect. Anger started to boil up inside you as your attempts to escape his grasp remained futile.

"I don't think you understand the dynamic here very well, Satoru," you began, your voice low and deliberate, each word punctuated for emphasis. You stepped closer, invading his space as much as he had invaded yours, your eyes never leaving his. "Let me make this crystal clear, I'm not someone you can just fucking conquer, and I'm certainly not one of those girls who's gonna kiss the ground you walk on with your whole 'I'm the strongest' act," you seethed.

Your face was mere inches from his now, your breath mingling, the tension palpable. "Because I know what you really are, Satrou," you hissed, the anger in your voice barely contained. "You're a fucking douche bag." "Oh? Is that so."

Satrou's expression shifted subtly, the amusement fading into something more measured, more cautious. He studied you for a moment and you took the chance to wiggle out of his grasp and make your way through the crowd on the dance floor toward the door. The beat of the music pounds in your ears and throughout your body making your synapses jump like beans in a tin can. You can barely see the floor, only flashes of bodies you frantically tried to push past. Before you can make it to the back door, a hand grips your wrist tightly enough to halt your forward rush. Above the din of the pulsating music and amidst the strobe-lit shadows of dancing figures, Satoru's face comes into view. You feel your breath catch in your throat. God his is beautiful. Strobe lights catch and accent every one of his sharp features alighting them in a multicolor color hue. He pulls your wrist to him so you're close, too close. You can smell the old spice shampoo from his hair mixed in with some sort of sweet cologne. It's a smell that makes you want to bury your nose into him over and over again. "Jesus fucking Christ y/n" he breathed his eyes searching yours. "How long are we going to keep this thing of ours going?" You furrowed your eyebrows. “Our thing? What thing?”

“The thing where we act like we hate each other but actually want to fuck the brains out of each other.” Your eyes widen and you feel your face grow deathly hot. You try to step back, get some space, some room to breathe, but the hand on your wrist keeps you from doing so

“I-fuck you” the words come out of your mouth more soft and meager than you intended to, and you find yourself locked into his blue gaze.

“Believe me, I've thought about it.” His voice is low, and his face isn't painted with a shit-eating grin like it so usually is, he's serious and his eyes are soft. Fuck it. You can no longer hear the lyrics to whatever song was playing, only a soft dull hum of the beat in your ears. Immediately your lips are on his. The kiss is frantic, hot, messy. The club's pulse thrummed through you like a second heartbeat, the noise and chaos all but forgotten in the singular focus of his presence. You could feel one of his large hands on the small of your back, drawing you in until there was no space left between the both of you. Your mouths clashed against each other as if you were both seeking something vital, something long-denied. Satoru's lips were insistent against yours, moving with a fervor that matched the pounding bass surrounding you. You whined as his tongue slipped into your mouth, your hands tangling in his hair, pulling him closer. You could feel the heat radiating from his body, the firm press of his chest against yours. The scent of his cologne mixed with the smoky air around us, intoxicating and heady.

Your mouths separated with a soft pop, and Satoru is grinning while you're left dazed, breath heavy and chests rising and falling after it. "How bout you say we get out of here Princess."Gojo's voice was a low murmur, his breath warm against your ear as you broke from the intense kiss.

Before you could even respond, a dizzying rush enveloped you. The loud club vanished in an instant, replaced by the quiet, dimly lit ambiance of his bedroom. You were suddenly on his bed, the soft duvet beneath you a stark contrast to the hard dance floor we'd just left. Right, he can teleport. You forgot about that. Wait was he... where are you going to... Before you can get a word in, he’s once again engulfing your lips with his and pulling you into a feverish kiss in which the two of you can’t seem to get enough of each other. The moment one pulls away to breathe, the other is immediately searching for their lips again; intertwining tongues and teeth clashing together recklessly.

Your hot, everything is hot, your body is burning up by the second and there’s a sickly sweet feeling in your stomach that keeps on expanding as time passes. You whine into his mouth when you feel a hand slip under your skirt and lightly trace the outline of your slit with his index finger. You're painfully wet; your arousal has made a large spot on your underwear translucent. “Just touch me,’ you whined, arching impatiently against his hand. He couldn’t make either of you wait any longer. Slowly, he brought his middle finger down and slid it gently over her folds. You threw your head back. "Ahhhh, more please." He did it again, this time his fingertip slipping between and gathering your wetness. He parted you with two fingers. You let out a gasp when he hit your clit and started to rub it in small circles. You tried to say something, anything to explain how hot you were feeling right now, but your words were lost against his soft lips. The taste of him, the smell of him, the feel of him so close against you, skin to skin. Time and space had no meaning anymore. There was only you and Satrou.

“You feeling good baby? Satrou speaks slowly, breath on your neck and voice in your ear making you shiver. You bite your lip and nod like any words that came from you would ruin it. You almost wince when you feel two fingers slip into your tight hole. "Jesus, fuck. You gotta relax princesses." He chuckled, knowing far to well that the tightness was going to feel delicious around him. Two fingers worked into you, and your eyes rolled back into your head. He began a steady rhythm as his tongue nipped and sucked the tender skin of your neck. You couldn’t prevent her hips from rising to meet his thrusts. Oh God, you were riding his hand. That had to be bad. You told herself to stop. You couldn’t. Somehow, you found your hands tangled in his short white hair. Your body was coiled tighter, grasping at his fingers, so wet now you could hear the slippery sounds every time he drove back into you. "Hnghhh.... so good." You squeezed your eyes type, becoming focused on the tightening feeling of your core and the blossoming warm pleasure. Your legs started to tremble under the unbearable pleasure and your back arched against the bed as if your body was trying to escape the euphoric feeling that coursed through your skin. "That’s it, fuck, beautiful girl... such a natural submissive...." You want to tell him he's wrong, all this pleasure wasn't because of his egotistic ass, but it'd be a lie. And as if on command, all feelings come to a heightened crescendo; explosions of euphoria clouding your brain causing your toes to curl from pleasure and your body to shake like a leaf.

It takes a couple seconds after you calmed down to realize you squirted all over Satoru's hand and all blood rushes to your face turning you a bright red.

“Oh my god in so sorry I didn’t-”

Your voice dies out as you watch Satrou pull off his shirt, revealing his extremely built body and toned muscles, to wipe the liquid off his hand. You don’t even notice that he had pulled out his dick until you feel something pressing against your entrance, making you look down and your eyes widen as you do so. Your stomach inwardly twisted,  filled with the sickly excitement and your breathing started to quicken. "Shhhhh baby," Satoru cups your cheek and kisses your forehead. It was a sweet gesture despite everything happening right now, a gesture that made your heart swell and your mind yearn for Satoru. The stretch of his dick spreading your walls is insane. No amount of preparation could've prepared you for the length of Satoru's dick. You feel it heavy inside you and Satrou pushes into you until he can't push anymore, until his hips are flush against you and the tip of his length is smushed against your cervix. The pleasure of that alone felt numb, unbearable, you needed friction, you needed him to move. You practically faint when he first thrusts into you in earnest. It's euphoric; the curvature of his dick digging itself against your g-spot, scraping against your vaginal walls every time he backed his hips up. His cock pulsed inside of your silky walls, stretching you to the fullest capacity as he bottomed out again and again. "Oh fuck." Satrou groaned. He was no longer grinning, Satoru's playful resolves vanished and his smile quickly dropped. He knew you'd feel good, but he didn't expect how good you'd feel. The feeling of his hand he had fucked himself to the thought of you for so many nights was nothing compared to the real thing. It was too much, the feeling of your wet soft walls gripping him so tightly. How was he able to live without your pussy in the first place? The pleasure built rapidly, too potent, too insistent. He kneeled over you, a groan escaping his lips—a raw, primal sound that vibrated through the charged air between you. Satorus thrust your quick and hard, a clear display of strength and endurance he had gained from years of jujutsu training. "Been thinking about this, so long, bet you have to have ya~"

As Satrou's long, deliberate fingers encircle your neck, a thrilling chill races down your spine. He applies pressure gently at first, then with a firmer, insistent grip that gradually restricts your airflow, sending a wave of exhilaration through your senses. The world around you narrows, focusing intently on the point where his skin contacts yours, heightening every other sensation that courses through you. His other hand slips under your bra bra to grab and massage your breast, his thumb flicking over your nipples.

"Satoru..! Ahhhh..! I..I, fuckkkkk can't handle this.." You had no strength to answer him, only offering wanton moans in retort as he continued to wreck your body with his completely brutal thrusts. The pain of him hitting the tip of your cervix nearly every time mixed with his hand squeezing your throat it was just all too much.

Satoru. Satoru. Satoru

"Slow down.. please im gonna ahhhh~" Drool slipped passed your lips and you writhed and squirmed at the feeling of hot euphoria passed over your body in flesh arrow. "Gonna cum? Fuck baby, let's... let's come together m'kay?" Satrou almost stuttered. His body had kicked into autopilot, and a deep primal need for you settled in as he thrust in and out, creating a methodical rhythm that echoed in your ears. Your ankles lock around his lower back and you cry out when the head of his cock kisses your womb, your legs shaking as you feel yourself start to be thrown into an intense orgasm. You want to say something about the weird feeling in your stomach, how your skin is buzzing but it's all too much, and before you know it your tumbling toward the edge. It feels like your whole body was shot with electricity and color dances in your eyes as you float in ecstasy.

"Sh-Shit, shit, fuuuuck~" He chuckles into your ear, choking over his words as his hips sputter inside of you, hot cum fills you as much as you can hold inside of your stuffed cunny. Satoru doesn't pull out as you both come down from your high, instead watching you intently as you ride through the aftershocks of your orgasm. "Wanna do this again?" He chuckles.

"Fuck, yes, please."

[hopefullhearts]

Sickeningly Sweet [Scott Miller x Reader - Twisters]

summary: You are Tyler Owens' childhood best friend and member of his storm chasing crew. A storm outbreak means you and the gang cross paths with Storm Par on more than one occasion, and your sweet southern charm drives Scott crazy (in more than one way).

content warnings: somewhat heated kissing, no use of y/n, light name-calling/teasing, not proofread/bad writing (I have not written a fanfic in forever), bad taste in candy, & i think that is all!

word count: 3.5k

a/n: I have not written or posted on tumblr in SO long but I saw Twisters for the glenn powell craze and left with a scott/david corenswet obsession and these thoughts must come out of my head.

Shoutout to @hederasgarden and @sailor-aviator for leading the charge for the Scott girlies. All of their writings and drabbles inspired me to write this one, so check them out!

If people like this I might do a smutty part 2! I don't mind writing smut I just feel like it's not very good hahaha but let me know what you think!

--

You heavily resented the idea that guys and girls could not just be friends, because you'd be damned if Tyler Owens wasn't the best friend you ever had.

You met on the playground in Kindergarten. A boy pushed you off a swing, Tyler defended your honor, and the rest was history.

Tyler's overprotective streak made you view him like the brother you never had, and that's how your relationship remained. He was family, and that was that.

Tyler had always been interested in tornadoes, more specifically, how to track and predict them. You, on the other hand, hated science, including weather, but you loved the thrill of the chase.

In college, you studied marketing while Tyler studied meteorology. So, when Tyler had the idea to start streaming his storm chases, you were right there with him to help grow his brand.

Tyler knows he would be stupid not to credit you with all his success. You set up his streaming account, you edited all the clips and drone footage to post to his social media after the fact, and you even gave him the idea for the "Tornado Wrangler" nickname.

Now that everything was off the ground, you mostly put together streaming highlights and designed the merch, but you were right there in the backseat for every single chase, soaking up all the thrills.

This particular storm outbreak was expected to be a big one, so the whole crew strapped in for a week of bad weather, cheap motel rooms, and of course, a few run-ins with other chasers, including the guys from Storm Par.

"Storm Par's here." You said, gesturing to the fleet of white vans parked at the gas station you had just pulled up to.

"Of course they are." Tyler sighed. "There's probably going to be a lot of damage done by these storms for them to swoop in on. Just ignore them."

"No, we should be polite." You chastised him. "I'm gonna go say hi. Will you get me a cherry coke please?"

Tyler fought back an eye-roll, but nodded with a smile as you both got out of the car. "Of course."

Like everyone else in the crew, the Storm Par guys got on your last nerve. They were all a bunch of Ivy League grads who thought a more expensive degree made them better than everyone else.

However, being raised by your Mama, the epitome of Southern grace and charm, you always put a smile on your face and treated them with kindness. You even occasionally brought them food or coffee if you ran into them in the aftermath of a storm.

And even though you were blissfully unaware of the fact, this drove Scott absolutely mad.

"Hi Scott, Javi." You said cheerfully to the two boys in charge.

Scott replied with a grunt, but Javi was quick to greet you with genuine enthusiasm. "Hey! How are you?"

"I'm doing well." You nodded, smoothing your hands over your athleisure skirt. "Excited for a good chase today. How about you guys?"

"Us too." Javi nodded. "We're hoping to finally get some solid data collection today."

"Ah." You nodded, unsure what to say. You hated the idea of what they were collecting data for, but Javi seemed like a nice enough guy, and Tyler ripped on them enough for the both of you.

"Something on your mind there, princess?" Scott finally spoke, glancing away from his tablet to look down on you (literally and figuratively).

You rolled your eyes. While you would normally love to be called a princess, it always sounded like an insult coming from Scott, his voice always laced with a touch of venom.

"No, nothing at all." You smiled. "Just wondering if we'll see you guys in the aftermath if there's any damage done?"

"Why? Are you looking to increase your t-shirt sales?"

You bit your tongue, doing your best to hold your composure and not let him get to you.

"Nope, just trying to figure out if we need to make some extra to-go boxes for you guys." You decided to focus your gaze on Javi instead, finding him less intimidating.

Javi opened his mouth to speak, but Scott beat him to the punch. "I think we can find food on our own, thanks."

You took a deep breath, choosing your next words carefully. "Okay, well, the offer always stands if you change your mind."

Javi smiled and nodded. "As much as I want to see a good storm today, let's hope we don't have a ton of damage clean up."

You smiled. You knew he had a heart.

"That's something we both can agree on." You grinned. "Stay safe out there you guys!"

With that, you turned and walked away. Scott watched you go, your hair and skirt blowing side to side in the wind.

"Stay safe out there you guys." Scott mocked you under his breath.

"Yo, you don't always have to be a jerk to her, you know."

Scott gave him an unamused look. "She comes out here with her little boyfriend, selling his t-shirts and shit, and then skips over here like we're the best of friends with her thick southern accent. It's all fake."

"For one, I don't think Owens is her boyfriend." Javi corrected. "And two, I think she's just a genuinely nice person. She always says hello, even when everyone else in their crew ignores us like the plague."

"Whatever." Scott mumbled.

As you reached the truck, you took the ice-cold Coca-Cola bottle from Tyler's outstretched hand.

"Thank you!" You said excitedly, twisting the cap off to take a sip.

"How are dumb and dumber?" Tyler teased.

"Javi was nice." You informed him. "Scott was... there."

"Ah, yes." Tyler laughed. "Word on the street is he's a man of many words."

"Right." You agreed sarcastically. "But, when he does speak to me, he always calls me princess, and it drives me crazy."

"In what way?" Tyler said, failing to hold back a smirk.

It took you a moment to realize what he was implying, but when you did, you were mortified,

"Tyler Owens!" You gasped, your face flushing red with embarrassment.

""I'm just teasing you! You make it too easy." He laughed loudly. "In my defense, he looks like exactly like every boyfriend you've ever had."

Your face got even warmer, because he was exactly right. You had a weakness for tall, muscular, dark-haired men, and you especially loved a man who was a challenge.

"That is...irrelevant." You said, covering your face in your hands out of pure embarrassment.

Tyler held his hands up in surrender, as you rushed to talk about anything but Scott. "Let's just figure out what storm we're going after, you jerk." You insulted Tyler, but the smile on your face was ear to ear.

Scott watched the interaction from afar, and his chest twisted at your sickeningly sweet smile. Even if you weren't Owens' girlfriend, your closeness was evident. He ignored the burning feeling that was rising within him, not wanting to question why it was there in the first place.

Tornadoes were scary, but trying to understand how he felt about you? Terrifying.

"Alright, boss man, which storm are we chasing?" Javi pulled him out of his thoughts with a hand clapped on his shoulder, and he finally pulled his gaze away from your smile, the sound of your laughter fading into the background.

--

The storm was bad.

It hit a small town of about 3,000 people, and you estimated based on the initial damage scene that it was an EF3 at best, maybe even an EF4.

You were currently handing out anything that might be helpful to families who had been impacted by the tornado - blankets, water, heat lamps. pre-made sandwiches and cookies. You tried to offer them any comfort you could with a smile and hug, but you understood the devastation they felt all too well.

In the early days, you would try to help with the damage cleanup, but Tyler insisted that you stay back at the camper and talk to the families.

At first, you were insulted, and you thought that Tyler was insinuating you weren't strong enough to move heavy tree limbs or pieces of drywall. You finally asked him about it one day, and he laughed.

"Absolutely not!" He insisted. "You just have this energy around you that's calming, and these families need that. Your empathy and kindness are doing much more for them right now than cleaning up a bunch of rubble would."

You had never thought of it like that, but once Tyler pointed it out, it became your mission to be the solace that these families in crisis needed.

"Is there anything else we can do for you, Mrs. Smith?" You asked, rubbing the arms of a middle-aged woman who you had been speaking to for a few minutes now.

"No, thank you." She sniffled. "I really appreciate you guys being here. God bless you."

You smiled, giving her another hug. "Please let us know if there's anything more we can do to help."

She nodded, walking away to join her family, who were staring at the remains of their house.

You pushed back tears, feeling silly that this never got any easier for you, but also focused on being the anchor that these folks needed.

Scott saw you before you saw him. He watched you from afar as you did your work. He watched you force a smile and hold these people as they cried. He also watched you look up to blink back the tears before taking a deep breath and moving on to the next.

And damn if it didn't drive him nuts.

This job is easier when he doesn't get involved with the people impacted. It's easier to pretend not to care. But watching you pour your heart out to strangers, just because it's the right thing to do? It made his heart jump, and that scared him.

Ignoring the people involved and ignoring his feelings for you had become increasingly more difficult with every chase.

"Scott!" You called, approaching him with a styrofoam container in your hand.

He sighed, mentally preparing himself as you literally bounced over to him.

How the hell does someone look this good after taking on a tornado?

"Here." You offered him the container. "It's just a ham and cheese sandwich and a cookie."

"I'm really not hungry." He responded.

"Seriously?" You asked, not buying it. "We've all been chasing since 10 AM and it's nearly 8, you have to be hungry."

Scott shrugged, trying to hold back the things he really wanted to say.

"Fine." You sighed. "We're right over here if you change your mind."

"Yeah, I know princess. It's hard to miss you being the town's savior over there."

Scott watched you visibly retract and he internally screamed as his heart dropped. You probably hated him, but it didn't matter anyway. You were far too sweet for him, so putting a wedge between the two of you seemed to be the smartest way to outrun his feelings.

"Wow." You spoke, your voice much smaller and shakier than usual. "I knew you were sarcastic and maybe even a little mean, but I never thought you were actually cruel. So, thanks, for enlightening me."

And with that, you turned and strutted off. This time, you failed to fight back the tears as you returned to the camper.

And to your horror, Tyler was there, taking a break from clean up for some water.

When Tyler sees you cry, his overprotective streak comes out instantly, and right now you didn't want to be protected, because you were so embarrassed that he finally got to you. You were even more embarrassed that you thought that just maybe, he might be a good person under that scowl and hard facade.

"Hey, hey, hey, are you okay?" Tyler rushed up to meet you.

You nodded, trying to stop sniffling. "I'm fine."

Tyler looked behind you to see Scott watching you closely, with a look that almost mimicked longing, and he quickly put two and two together.

"Let me handle this." He insisted.

You shook your head in protest. "No, Tyler, please, he thinks I'm a waste of time anyways, it's not worth it."

"Trust me, he doesn't," Tyler reassured you. "Let me handle this, and if it goes badly, I'll edit all the stream highlights for the next two weeks, okay?"

"Deal." You nodded.

You truly did trust him more than anyone in your life, so you opted to go inside the camper and dry up your tears while he went to speak to Scott. You would let Tyler handle it, but no way were you going to stand there and watch, looking like a puppy who just got kicked.

"Coming to defend your girlfriend's honor?" Scott said sarcastically, trying to mask any emotion he was feeling.

"Dude, seriously." Tyler glared at him. "If you want her attention being a complete and total asshole is not the way you get it."

"Is that what you think? That I want her 'attention'?" He said, framing the last word in air quotes.

"Yeah, I do." Tyler nodded. "I saw the look you gave her as she walked away."

"Okay, so what?" Scott shrugged. "You might be surprised to know I am human and I didn't mean to make her cry."

"Sure." Tyler nodded. "So, what about all the other times I've caught you staring at her, hm?"

Scott stayed silent, stunned speechless.

"Ah, you thought you were better at hiding it, didn't you?" Tyler said with a smug grin. "Every time we end up at the same gas station, restaurant, bar, or motel, your eyes follow her nearly the whole time. And don't even get me started on the holes you burn into my head when I'm talking to her."

"Alright, fine." Scott snapped angrily. "Here to rub it in my face then?"

Tyler sighed in frustration. "No."

"Then what?"

"I'm going to give you a piece of advice."

"Why?" Scott scoffed. "It's no secret that we aren't friends."

"I know her better than anyone else, do you want my help or not?" Tyler asked, his patience nearing its limit.

Scott didn't protest this time.

"Look, no matter what I think about you, you're pretty much exactly her type," Tyler said, much to Scott's surprise. "So if you want her, apologize and tell her how you feel."

"She's not going to feel the same, and she deserves much better than me." Scott retorted. "C'mon Owens, you know what we do. When she comes floating into these broken towns like a heaven-sent angel, I'm collecting data for the devil."

"That doesn't have to be a permanent problem." Tyler pointed out. "Plus, she likes a challenge, and she's definitely brave enough to think she can fix you."

That cracked a smile from both of them, followed by a moment of silence.

"218." Tyler said.

"What?"

"That's the room she's staying in tonight." Tyler said, starting to walk away. "Apologize."

Scott nodded, beginning to formulate a plan on how the hell he was going to get you to forgive him.

--

You were snug under your blanket in the motel room watching reruns of Modern Family when the knock came.

You sighed and got up, not bothering to check the peephole as you assumed it was just Tyler coming to talk about the day's events.

So when you opened the door to see Scott standing there, you couldn't be more surprised.

"What are you doing here?" You said quietly, nearly breathless at the sight of him.

It wasn't the first time you had seen him outside of that stupid Storm Par white jumpsuit, but it was the first time you had seen him in gray sweatpants and a tight black long-sleeve shirt that clung to his muscles in a way that you could only describe as sinful.

He towered over you, leaning against the frame of the doorway, and you nearly shuddered when you looked up to meet the intense gaze in his eyes.

"I brought you something. As an apology for being an ass earlier today."

"Oh, and what did you bring for all the other times?" You spat back, no longer in the mood to play nice with him.

"I deserve that." He sighed. "Can I come in?"

"Depends." You responded, and he raised an eyebrow. "What did you bring me?"

He handed you a plastic bag, and you opened it to find a Cherry Coke, Sour Patch Kids, and a Honey Bun.

All of your favorites.

"How did you know what I like?" You asked, curious to know if Tyler was behind this.

"You always get some combination of the three at any local gas station." He shrugged.

He remembered because the first time he saw you buy all three he physically rolled his eyes, because, of course, you would buy snacks just as sickeningly sweet as you.

"I didn't know you paid this much attention to me." You said softly.

"Yeah." Scott inhaled a sharp breath. "That's what I wanted to talk to you about. Can I please come in?"

You opened the door, inviting him in with the gesture. The door shut behind you, and there was a brief moment of silence between you two.

"I'm sorry, for being a jerk today and every other time I'm around you." Scott started, visibly nervous as he ran a hand through his hair. "I wish I had a better explanation for why I've been such an ass."

"Yeah, so let's hear it." You said, hands on your hips. "Because I have been nothing but nice to you, even though I don't like who you work for and what they stand for."

"I know." He nodded. "At first, I thought you were being fake or sarcastic because it was unfathomable to me that you would be nice to us when you have absolutely no reason to be."

You nodded, encouraging him to continue.

"But once I learned more about you, and I realized you were being genuinely nice," Scott took a deep breath, building up all his courage. "It knocked me off my feet."

"What do you mean?" You asked, confused at what he was getting at

"I spend most of my time pretending that I don't care about the people that are devastated by all of this, because it's easier that way. But watching you bear your heart and soul to all of these people, just because you can?" Scott scoffed. "It makes it hard to pretend like I don't care about them, or more importantly, about you."

"You care about me?"

"I do." He nodded. "And I was a jerk to you because I thought it would be easier to make you hate me than it would be to admit that I have feelings for you, when you're far too good for me."

His admission stunned you. You can feel your heart thumping out of your chest as you look into his eyes, which look painstakingly vulnerable.

"I completely understand if you don't feel the same way, but I couldn't outrun these feelings anymore, and I wanted to at least let you know that I'm sorry."

The room fell silent as you processed everything he just told you. Scott was panicking inside, waiting for what felt like years for you to say something, anything.

"Do you know why I was always nice to you?" You asked him. "Because I was hoping that somewhere in there you had a good side. I needed to know that you had a heart before I could admit to myself that I felt drawn to you."

"Do you still? Feel drawn to me?"

You nodded. Stepping closer to him so that you were nearly face to face.

"Can I kiss you?"

"Please." You nodded desperately, your words barely above a whisper.

His lips were on yours in a flash, and the pure intensity of the kiss nearly knocked you off your feet. It was heated and rough, but somehow gentle and passionate at the same time. His thumb grazed your cheek as he pulled you closer, and every spot his fingers touched made your skin feel like it was on fire. You couldn't get enough of him.

Once he knew you were comfortable, he took the liberty of exploring you more. His tongue slipped into your mouth gently and his teeth caught your bottom lip, causing a small whimper to come from the back of your throat.

Scott groaned at the sound, letting his mind imagine (not for the first time) all of the sounds he could pull from you.

When the two of you finally pulled away for air, he kept you close, his hands ghosting under your chin around your neck, forcing you to meet his eyes.

"You taste just as sweet as I thought you would," Scott said with a smirk.

"Shut up and kiss me again."

[ronearoundblindly]

Big Pharma

Steve Rogers x doctor!Reader

Written for @stargazingfangirl18's Birthday Bonenanza--HAPPY BDAY, SIRI!--using the scenario prompt ~quick, frantic, secret sex in an almost public place + babe's hand over your mouth to keep you quiet~ and the dialogue prompt "goddamnit, will you just f***ing let me do this for you?" with free use kink for good measure. Why not?

Summary: The extreme drug cocktail you devise to save Steve Rogers has one major side effect.

Warnings for smut 🥴, sorta dub-con because it's like sex pollen, F E E L S, Steve being the most chivalrous gentleman while railing you (do it for your country, babes 🫡), completely unintentional dirty talk from Steve but 😮‍💨 we'll allow it, Tony being Tony, and--as always-- terrible puns. (There are no mentions of any medical instruments, except an IV, which is not used.) MINORS DNI. This is a mature gift work; see my Light Masterlist for all-age fanfic that is fine for minors. WC 2k

The constant photoflash burns into your retinas obnoxiously, and you’re not even the subject of the paparazzi.

Captain America is alive—all thanks to you—though he could easily have been six-feet under by now. The mysterious infection was so bad and spread so far, the drug regimen you administered constitutes one of the Avengers’ biggest Hail Marys to date, but it’s working. That’s all that matters…to the world. Behind the scenes is a different story.

As Captain Rogers turns to the next hand he must shake, his sharp blue eyes find you, twinged with a familiar fear.

This stupid event scheduled by Stark to boost morale, to show Cap is just fine and back in fighting form, has gone on too long. It’s happening again.

You worried Rogers might not make it when suddenly Stark showed up hours earlier than the initial, planned press conference—because, of course, there’s meet-and-greets, quick interviews, and these damn handshakes. He’s only gone so long between treatments for the last week.

You nod at Cap and make your way in the small crowd back to Stark. You tell him you’ll need a room, somewhere private to put in the IV, and at least thirty minutes to administer the huge dose. Rogers’s super-metabolism makes it necessary to use approximately forty times the prescription average for antibiotics and steroids. In theory, the side effects are well worth his speedy recovery.

Well, the only side effect.

Stark looks horrendously annoyed. “Can’t you just shoot him up with it and be done?” He doesn’t need your lecture repeated though. “Fine, there’s a greenroom thing over there, but you’ve got fifteen minutes at most, you hear me?”

“Twenty-five, Mr. Stark. He’s not a water balloon.”

“Twenty or he can wheel the damn thing around with him.”

You gulp in nervousness, but the problem isn’t Stark’s attitude. Rogers isn’t going to like rushing this. He feels shame enough already.

“I’ll make it work,” you assure the stubborn playboy. If he only knew…

“Good. A team player. We value that here.”

You have no fucking idea how ironic that is, you scream internally, but you follow him to a door off a back hallway, a room that shares a wall with the space all those people are gathered, and thank Stark.

“Oh good, he’s heard the dog-whistle of treat time,” Tony quips, and you swivel to see Cap trailing behind you.

He’s already made his excuses to step away, too. It must be bad.

You’re sure to pull out your props of a saline drip and tubing from your bag while Tony can still see, but you drop the act the instant the door clicks shut.

Cap take one step forward to flip the lock, immediately unzipping the fly of his iconic leather suit.

See, the only side effect of the drugs is Rogers gets hard, often, and can’t find relief from his efforts alone. Through trial-and-error, the clear solution has been help—discretely—from the only medical professional allowed around him until his condition improved.

Of course, he fought it. Of course, you wanted to preserve his dignity. Of course, you tried to keep it as perfunctory, methodical, and uninspired as possible, but the thing is, that didn’t last.

The more distant and cold the experience, the faster he became desperate and wanting again, and now you have just twenty minutes to make sure Captain America can hold out for hours.

Steve, you remind yourself. He prefers you not use respectful address when engaging is what he deems entirely disrespectful behavior. 

You need to get him off in essentially no time at all, so you’ve decided: go big or go home.

Bag tossed to the floor, you unbutton your pants and shimmy out of everything from shoes to panties, letting the longer tail of your dress shirt barely cover your modesty.

Steve looks dumbfounded. It’s bad enough he has to run to you for a handy every few hours, but this?

“Doc, no,” he breaths.

“I understand the procedure,” you say calmly, echoing his harrowing consent from that first night he needed you.

Steve’s brow furrows in strain. “We shouldn’t…”

‘We’ are way past ‘shouldn’t,’ buddy.

“Can’t ask you to…“ but he also knows time’s a wasting.

He’s already fisting himself, struggling to be the gentleman he never stopped being, which at the moment is a huge problem because both of you need to get through the day—you without losing your job and him without popping a boner on national television.

It’s your job to break him and break him right now.

“Goddamnit, will you just fucking let me do this for you?”

There’s a flat smack on the door.

“Do whatever the lady wants and then get back out here,” Tony yells from the other side. “Put us all out of our misery,” he ends with a grumble.

That is by far the most helpful thing Stark has said in the last week, so you mouth “see” and begin undoing your blouse from the bottom, giving Steve his first peek of you. His hand speeds along his length, adam’s apple bobbing in concentration.

“Here, I’ll make it easy for you,” you whisper. You walk to the far corner of the room, put your hands up, shirt rising over your bare ass, and face the wall. Your voice is soothing, pleading even. “Just take what you need.”

In some ways, you feel responsible for his predicament. You are the prescribing doctor, he isn’t in a relationship where a partner could assist, and he insists no one else know. He doesn’t deserve to be poked and prodded more than necessary, and you can’t give him any other meds in combination. None of it is his fault same as none of it is yours. You only intended to heal him.

Truthfully though, none of this is just about his release anymore, much as you’d like to dismiss your feelings.

You can’t deny, however, that each time the air gets a little thicker with tension, the body language a little more intimate. Steve has kept his eyes open, clutched your free hand to his chest, rolled his hips open, and thrust up into your fist. The greater the satisfaction of his climax, the longer he retains control.

“When this is over…I swear,” he grits out, getting closer word by word until his deep voice is right by your ear.

He tugs your shirt up to dip his fingers between your legs. “Been smelling you for two days. Can’t do anything until—” Steve growls, feeling how slick you’ve become in anticipation “—you’re ready for me.” 

His concern washes away when two fingers easily breech you to the knuckle and are immediately replaced by the blunt head of his cock dragging between your folds.

You didn’t expect him to give in so fast. You didn’t expect him to have known this aroused you. The idea he might want to continue, to go further, races down your spine, following the opposite path of Steve leaning into you. His forehead presses your occipital as yours presses the wall. The heat of him makes you arch in luxurious proximity.

Steve fucking forward to enter you in one smooth motion makes you forget to be quiet, but before the whole shout of ecstasy escapes, his hand covers your mouth.

“Shhh, Doc,” he breathes at the base of your neck. “Be good for me.”

That only gets you moaning into the seam of his gloves.

His hips start a staccato rhythm, a second of loud friction for each second of silent, fulfilling pressure.

Steve slips his still wet fingers under your shirt and beneath the cup of your bra to swirl a smooth pattern over your nipple. Instead of voicing your approval, you shove yourself back into him faster.

You notice the muffled chatting of Tony and someone else outside while your eyes roll. The slap of your skin against the Cap suit becomes the loudest thing in the room, but that’s not what Steve minds.

He pulls out and spins you around, pausing to see the cream you’ve created at the base of him drip to the carpet below.

Deep sea eyes meet yours through golden lashes.

“If I can’t hear you…” Steve hoists you up to his waist, threading one arm through the bend in your knee, spreading you wide and diving in swiftly.

Your body curls forward automatically to grasp at him and smother yourself in the leather of his shoulder pad. This pace is much faster, purposeful, utterly unravelling you. The position delivers more range of motion, all of the buildup and less of the noise, with the added benefit of his tool belt nudging your clit repeatedly.

Tony pounds on the door. “‘Bout done in there, guys? Let’s go.” How apt, the unknowing jester.

Steve pants, open-mouthed, against your temple.

You smile but can’t stop your own ruin.

A groan gets buried in your disheveled hair. “Are you…close?” His hips snap brutally. “Are you—“ he sounds wrecked “—you gonna…come on my—uungh.”

You tip over the edge, clutching him tight and fluttering for him in every way. The detonation of your orgasm burns red behind your eyelids like camera flashes, a dirty snapshot for you alone.

“Mercy,” Steve begs, gripping your ass to rut into you, desperate to join. His neck tenses as he spills inside you, pulse throbbing in time with his cock. 

He leans against you and the wall, his steady weight stilling your shaky legs. Slowly, your feet are guided to the floor and Steve steps away to wipe away any evidence of his ‘therapeutic treatment.’ His breathing settles much faster than yours, and by the time he’s tucked back in with his suit righted, you’re simply sliding down the wall to catch up.

He hurries over to the small vanity and mini fridge—usually ‘guests’ for speaking (or interrogating) wait here—to bring you supplies.

A box of tissues is set by your side.

“So…” he hands you a bottle of water “…maybe…dinner tonight?” 

You set the water down in favor of cleaning yourself, glancing up to offer a reassuring dismissal. “This morning was your last dose,” you remind him. “It should be over soon.”

Steve may not need this anymore, may never need you again, but he doesn’t miss a single beat.

“I’d like—I want to take you some place nice, but…” He chugs his whole water then quickly unclasps the glove on his left hand, rolling up his sleeve, veins jumping over a thick forearm.

“I don’t know what food you enjoy.”

Arguably, he knows a few other things that you enjoy.

There’s another impatient bang at the door.

“I—“ Your heart soars with the soft sincerity of his face, no trace of fear left behind, no hesitation. “I’m gonna need a minute.”

Steve stands, smoothing a hand over his hair. “I’ll lock it behind me…and, um, thank you, Doc.”

It’s the first time he hasn’t apologized this whole week.

“You’re welcome, sir.”

Steve flashes you a dopey smile and shakes his head. “See you out there,” he chuckles.

You can’t be seen when the door opens just enough for Steve to step out, but he makes a show of rolling the suit’s sleeve back down like he really did have an IV infusion, selling the lie like a pro. He keeps Tony talking while shutting you back into your debauched bubble.

Through the wall, you still hear “could you have gone any slower?” followed by a curt, “yes,” and have to stifle a laugh.

“What’d you do, blow a vein?”

You’re picturing an incredibly ironic look on Captain Rogers’ face.

“Just be grateful she puts up with us, Tony…” and their voices disappear down the hall.

His treatment may be finished, but Steve wants you to stick around. He wants you.

Would having dinner with that man really be so terrible? No. Not at all. Even the ‘worst’ of this situation has been a great fucking experience. You don’t want to give that up yet.

It seems you’re both addicted now.

[Main Masterlist; Steve Rogers One-Shots; Ko-Fi]

[swordgrace]

𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐍 𝐀𝐓𝐓𝐈𝐓𝐔𝐃𝐄.

༺ cregan stark x fem!northern!reader.

SYNOPSIS: a longtime friend of cregan stark, you seek him out to train you with a longsword. though, a duel in the wolfswood leaves you with more of a desire for other things instead of swordplay.

anonymous request.

༺ FORMAT: one-shot — requested.

༺ WORD COUNT: 9.3K.

༺ WARNINGS: SMUT (mdni), friends to lovers, sexual tension, mutual possessiveness, size difference / size kink, cregan is much bigger than the reader, dominant cregan, cregan is a big, brooding hunk, sexually-charged dueling, p in v sex (unprotected), multiple positions, all stark men have a breeding kink, neck biting / marking (biting in general), rough sex, cunnilingus / oral sex (fem!receiving), hair pulling, fingering, groping, light bruising, mild manhandling, soft ending & soft aftercare.

༺ AUTHOR’S NOTE: You can tell that I’m inspired because I’m putting out fanfics at the pace of a madman. I absolutely loved this request, huge thanks to the anon who gave me this wonderful idea and allowed me to bring it to life! ❤️ I loved writing for Cregan and I definitely wouldn’t mind doing so again! Thank you to all the love & support, you all mean the world to me! Enjoy!

“𝐈𝐟 𝐈 𝐚𝐦 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮, 𝐰𝐞 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐝 — 𝐈 𝐰𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐥𝐞𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐚 𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐬𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐚 𝐒𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐫.”

Lord Cregan Stark’s usual stoicism held a vast amount of protectiveness, the desire to better you in the right way, the Northern way. You had been taught all about swordplay by your father, but through the years, as you grew into your place as Lady of Barrowton, your skills had declined.

Ladies of your station were admonished for possessing any inclination of violence — a woman could not hold a sword, she could only hold an embroidery needle. A woman could not rule, only guide the men that do, and a woman could not become tempestuous, for it meant that she was simply a bad product or undesirable.

Thankfully, Cregan defied all expectations and pledged to teach you, hone your skills again from the ground up, if necessary. You could not be anymore grateful to him for assuming that mantle when he didn’t have to.

Your longstanding relationship with the Warden of the North, Cregan Stark, was the byproduct of many childhood years spent together — it was often you, Cregan, and his late younger brother. A deadly trio, to be sure, running through the Wolfswood and terrorizing Winterfell with typical childish antics.

The joy of youth had begun to run dry — you were nine-and-ten now, Cregan one-and-twenty, ruling over the entirety of the North. Your father was Lord Roderick Dustin, Lord of Barrowton and an infamous fighter, bannerman to House Stark. Of course, his duties were often torn between Barrowton and Winterfell, and so you were left in the care of your uncle.

Learning to fight again as a man would involve many hours and countless sessions held within the Godswood behind the Great Keep. It was only a handful of times each week, provided that Cregan was able to attend despite the rest of his duties.

His closest advisors had beseeched him to abandon teaching you, to let it die and rest with those with more time on their hands. Cregan refused to leave you in the hands of a less capable swordsman — what good was that, letting you learn the wrong way?

A crow’s cry reverberated throughout the Wolfswood, the beat of a flock soaring through the heavily wooded hills. Your sessions inevitably relocated from the Godswood to here, to allow for the cover of privacy and a lack of wandering eyes.

Hardened earth had turned damp and muddy in the presence of a deluge days before, certainly not sturdy ground for true fighting, but it would prove to be a challenge for the both of you. Rain wasn’t common in the North, but it proved to be quite a nuisance whenever it fell — and it fell hard.

He was under great scrutiny for doing this anyway, and Cregan preferred to keep the lectures of old men at-bay for a time, if he could. The young Lord sat beneath the sprawling branches of a massive oak tree, his horse tethered several feet away.

Using a sharpening stone, he turned dull steel into razor-sharp weapons, abandoning the practice swords he often brought with him whenever he met with you. That happened to be another point of contention — meeting with a young maiden, alone in the woods, without any chaperone.

Cregan would never tarnish your honor or sully your dignity — betrothal was inevitable for a man of his station, but he wanted to forget about it. Things were easier when it was just the two of you, sparring in the woods — he did not feel so weighed-down by duty, by leadership.

He felt less like the Warden of the North and simply Cregan Stark.

The mantle of leadership had become heavier with the visit of Jacaerys Velaryon, Prince of Dragonstone, asking that he supply his mother’s armies with Northmen. House Stark was an honorable one — he wasn’t about to break vows of fealty sworn before the late King Viserys to make his daughter heir.

It meant that war was on the horizon, a war that would involve himself and his people, a war that held the potential to rip the realm asunder. Cregan had prepared himself for a time like this, when oaths and honor transcended old traditions. Whatever storm was approaching, he was prepared to face it head-on.

His head lifted from admiring polished steel, gray eyes searching for the dappled coat of your horse as it thundered through the Wolfswood. His heart felt lighter when his gaze found you, guiding your steed toward his own to tether it to a sturdy branch.

Love was a dangerous thing, just as perilous as any war fought by men — both on different fronts. Cregan had lost plenty in his life, and he feared losing you. This friendship you had, it almost seemed to take on a life of its own, abandoning the line of propriety and molding into something else, something affectionate.

Cregan didn’t know what he felt for you, but he knew that it wasn’t anything a friend should feel.

Despite the bitter chill of the North, the day was temperate enough, one where he didn’t feel the desire to wear a heavy cloak or layer himself in furs. The adrenaline of swordplay often got his blood rushing anyway, and he would be hot by the time this was all said and done.

The cheer and excitement you often felt was displayed so openly upon your face, lips curled into a bright smile. Cregan had teased you for being too amiable for a Northerner, but admittedly, he looked forward to seeing your sweet countenance and sparkling eyes. There was a warmth you possessed, a warmth hot enough to keep him comfortable when in your presence.

“Dour, as always,” You hummed, dismounting from your gelding with a look of mild amusement. You abandoned the lengthy silks and pretty dresses of a maiden whenever you came to train, outfitted with leather armor that seemed somewhat ill-fitting on you. “I wish to see you smile, Cregan.”

With a sardonic huff, a twinkle reached Cregan’s stormy-gray eyes as he looked to you, brows furrowing together. “I suppose you caught me on an odd day,” He replied, placing the sharpening stone upon the pillar of flat rock he sat atop. “Duties of the Warden of the North.” He sighed, turning his eyes toward the dismal skies.

You could detect his stress from where you stood, moving closer to him until you reached the smooth rock, taking a seat at his side. “Something is wrong,” You stated. Despite the constant banter you shared, you were still friends — Cregan wore his exhaustion on his sleeve in moments of vulnerability. “What is it?”

His shoulders rolled in a shrug, letting the blade of his longsword turn downward into the dirt, its weight resting against his thigh. “Winter is here,” Cregan murmured, countenance etched with a somber look. “War is brewing in the South. I am torn on two fronts.”

The conflict between Rhaenyra and King Aegon II — you knew of it. The realm was prepared to rip itself apart instead of seeing a woman’s ascension, something that you felt a great deal of sympathy for. “What will you do?” You inquired, able to see the furling of tension within his body, even beneath his sparring leathers.

“Uphold the oath made before King Viserys I, and before the realm,” Cregan replied, his eyes filled with something stern and solemn. He would never break an oath — it wasn’t something Northerners took lightly. “We swore to see the ascension of Rhaenyra Targaryen, and we shall fulfill it. I’ve pledged two-thousand greybeards to send South, when the time comes.”

The admiration you felt for Cregan only grew tenfold — it was the Cregan Stark that you had felt affection for, grown fond of. He was honorable, a gentle yet powerful man who wielded leadership with thoughtfulness and integrity. Your lips curled into a warm smile, as smoldering as a summer’s eve as you reached his arm.

“You’re a good man, Cregan.” It was all that needed to be said. There were plenty more sentiments conveyed in your softening stare alone — many things left unspoken, but some of it boiling beneath the surface.

A soft huff escaped him before he shook his head, dismissing your praise with a shrug of his shoulder. “I do what any honorable man would do,” He murmured, but the both of you knew it wasn’t true. Cregan showed great humility even when he didn’t need to. He moved to his feet, holding a longsword in each hand. “But we didn’t come here to speak of a grim future.”

The noticeable difference in stature was a point of teasing between the both of you, and one that Cregan took full advantage of. You stood across from him, head canting to one side. “The only grim future that I see is your face, my Lord.” You chimed, and he let out a mirthful scoff at your prodding and playful use of his title.

He stepped closer, offering you the glimmering blade of a longsword. Your surprise was noteworthy, and he very nearly made a comment, electing to hold his tongue. Cregan knew how to handle a blade — he was a talented swordsman, seasoned and experienced despite his age.

“These are real,” You stated, feeling the weight of the blade within your hand. You half expected the practice swords, but this was a welcome surprise. “Do you think that this is wise?” Admittedly, there was a pang of fear at the thought of swinging a real sword. What if you accidentally maimed him?

Cregan huffed, visage one of stoicism despite the amusement that crept into his stern, Northern timbre. “You’ll have to learn to leave the play-fighting behind, my Lady,” He murmured, watching as you white-knuckled the hilt. He was surprised that your hand didn’t rip apart. “Don’t hold it too tight.”

With a sharp exhale, you glanced at Cregan, whose gray eyes were akin to the onslaught of a winter storm, dark-chestnut tresses framing his face. He was beginning to grow a bit of scruff on his face, likely a byproduct of the stress of his duties.

He was handsome — Northern perfection made flesh and bone, a gentle mountain of a man. In your youth, you had always fancied Cregan to some degree, but his birthright often prevented you from acting on impulse. Then again, it was best left as a fantasy.

You froze when his hand wrapped around yours, calloused digits forcing your grip to loosen. “Don’t keep your hands together,” Cregan rumbled, repositioning your grip — one toward the top of the hilt, and the other closer to the pommel. “You’re acting as if this is day one.” He challenged, and that got your attention.

“It’s heavier,” You murmured, recoiling away with a disdainful expression. Cregan knew that he was beginning to get a rise out of you, lips twitching into the ghost of a smirk. “It’s not as easy to handle as the swords we used before.”

“Did you expect a longsword to weigh as much as a feather?” Cregan inquired, attempting to smother his amusement when you rolled your eyes at him. He prepared himself, squaring up into an attack formation, handling his ancestral blade with ease.

A scoff escaped you, and you mirrored his stance, holding the blade to the best of your ability. There was a burn in your arms from the newfound weight, but you pretended that it didn’t bother you. “I might throw this feather at you.” You grumbled, and at last, that earned you a brief chuckle from Cregan.

“Ready yourself,” He warned, circling you with steady steps. Cregan knew that he wouldn’t hold back for your sake — you were strong enough to take it. You insisted upon it many times before, even if he was initially reluctant to do so. “Don’t hold back.”

With a soft grunt, you brazenly charged at Cregan, hoping that it would catch him by surprise. He seemed to be expecting this, nimbly dodging your sloppy charge as he stepped to the side. You swiveled around, blades clanging together as they reverberated throughout the Wolfswood.

The silver of steel glinted within the pale rays of sunlight glistening through the canopy above. Cregan maintained a stalwart expression, though it began to crack at the seams as you swung again. He parried the blow, shuffling within the fallen leaves and damp earth.

“You’re swinging like a drunkard,” Cregan quipped, knowing that you were smarter than this. In one smooth stroke, he shoved you aside, grabbing the bicep of your sword arm. “Don’t fight like one.” He grunted, brows furrowing together as you struggled within his ironclad grasp.

In a brief stroke of genius, you smacked Cregan’s side with the pommel of your longsword, causing him to loosen his hold as you shimmied away. He let out a grunt, watching as you quickly made distance. It was a dirty fighting tactic — he most certainly didn’t teach you that.

The flash of a triumphant smile crept onto your features, but not before the King in the North charged forth, the both of you bringing your swords up. Something blossomed between the both of you, a strange tension fueled by unspoken feelings. Cregan bared his weight down upon you, causing you to maneuver to the side in order to evade him.

There was a fire within his eyes whenever he fought, a spark that turned into a bright flame. Adrenaline made his blood run hot, and the more the two of you brought your swords together, moving about as if it were a dance, the more enticed and invigorated he became.

Cregan found you beautiful, strands of hair sticking to your shimmering temples, framing your creased brow. The concentration written upon your visage was enough to make him pause, admire the intricacies and commit them to memory. Even when you wore men’s garb to spar, you were still enchanting.

You were perfect when fighting, pouring all of your efforts into beating him, if that were a possibility. Cregan didn’t want to doubt you, knowing that you possessed a raging inner fire, a quiet strength that grew with the tenacity of a wolf whenever you were provoked.

Steel ripped against steel, the duel commencing deep within the heart of the Wolfswood. His heart hammered with excitement, breath hot and labored as he parried another one of your quick, flourishing strikes.

He pressed his advance, barreling forward as he began to back you toward the rock underneath a sprawling tree of reddish leaves. Cregan noticed the panicked look in your eyes, the way in which you tried every move he’d taught you to gain distance.

“The wolf descends, my Lady. Think hard,” Cregan rumbled, wanting you to try and get out of this situation. “The enemy will not wait — they will strike, and you will end up here.” You were intelligent, a quick thinker — he wanted you to be smarter than this.

In what you considered to be another dirty tactic, you kicked a mound of damp dirt in his direction, providing enough of a distraction for you to hop the gap. Again, it only seemed to corral you into a corner. You attempted to swing down with an overhead strike, but Cregan very nearly knocked you into the ground.

“Never strike like that again, unless you want a blade through your belly,” He grunted, watching with mild awe as you brought it down to the side instead, forcing him to parry. Both of your blades locked at the side, struggling to maintain your balance. “Good.”

The dance continued, becoming a game of wit — outthinking and outmaneuvering the other, blades clashing again and again. He pressed you back into a corner as he had before, the distance slim. Cregan didn’t want you to yield — he knew that you wouldn’t.

Anticipation grew, and you found yourself weighing the odds. Perhaps you were simply too prideful to surrender to Cregan, even if all of this was a learning moment. Either way, you continued to fend him off with quick slashes of your blade, to no avail.

The rock became dangerously close, nearly brushing against your back as Cregan pressed his advantage. In a stroke of what you deemed as desperate thinking, you lashed out with a mule kick to his sword hand, loosening his grip enough to knock it away.

You shoved him with all of your strength, and much to your own surprise, he fell right into the dirt. Your heart hammered within your chest, and seeing the King of the North strewn across the ground made you feel some sense of victory.

Cregan huffed, brows knitting together as he stared at you from below, quickly recuperating. “I didn’t teach you to fight like a sellsword.” He grunted, but he had to admit, it was good thinking on your end — even if it was dirty and unsportsmanlike.

A smile fluttered across your features as you wiped the sweat from your brow, preparing to assail Cregan with whatever witty blows you could think of. “It wouldn’t hurt you to learn a thing or two.” You mused, canting your head to one side.

With a stoic grunt, Cregan decided to employ a dirty tactic of his own. It was a playful move, acted out without any malice and instead, wanting to hear the end of your teasing. He lashed out with his boot, sweeping your legs right out from underneath you.

Cregan smirked, watching as you buckled and toppled over, though he never intended for you to unceremoniously land right on top of him. You dropped your longsword somewhere along the way, forehead narrowly avoiding smacking into the hard earth. Cregan caught you before that could happen.

With labored breaths, you immediately hit his chest with a light punch, not enough to ever cause any real harm. “What was that for?” You grumbled, realizing how close the both of you were. He was a large man, warm and muscular beneath you.

“I’ve learned a thing or two, my Lady.” Cregan corrected, a twinkle within his stormy-gray eyes. When he fully noticed the compromising position the both of you were in, his breath hitched slightly. There was nothing stopping him from grabbing your hips and kissing you then and there.

Before fantasy could become reality, you hastily rolled off of him, feeling a light sting of arousal growing between your thighs. You wanted to avoid such a disaster — Cregan was your friend, he was the King in the North. To ascend all bonds of propriety and try for something more would be improper.

He stayed on the ground for a moment longer, moving into a sitting position as he shook his head. “Throwing dirt, pommel-striking, and kicking,” Cregan remarked, planting a palm atop his knee. “Have you been training without me?”

“Never,” You wouldn’t dare seek out another swordsman — there were none like Cregan Stark. “I wouldn’t dream of having another teacher,” You hesitated, lips twitching into a bemused smile. “Though, if I am not mistaken, you do sound jealous.”

Cregan happened to stand before you did, outstretching a gloved hand for you to take. You did, murmuring your gratitude as he hauled you up and right into the expanse of his chest, emblazoned with the direwolf of House Stark. There was something indiscernible within his eyes, steely yet softening in sight of you.

The unusual tension had crackled from mere sparks to an open flame, your throat becoming tight as Cregan’s gaze bored into you. His shadow swallowed you whole, wisps of dark, chestnut hair sticking to his face, perspiration glittering across his temples. You still held his hand, watching as his jaw tensed.

“I sound jealous, my Lady?” Cregan rumbled, timbre gentle and thick with his Northern accent. The closer he pressed, the more the reality of the situation dawned upon you, keeping you grounded. You were afraid of resorting to action, afraid that something would happen to tear you both apart.

It was easy to tear down your teasing, playful side to nothing more than a smitten maiden when Cregan huskily addressed you that way. His eyes momentarily flickered across your beautiful features, particularly the soft curve of your mouth, and what little of your neck had been exposed to him.

You swallowed the growing lump within your throat, lips parting as a soft exhale escaped you. “You do,” You whispered, searching his countenance for any sign of discomfort or hesitation. When you found none, you began to lean up, rocking closer than ever before. “Quite jealous.”

Cregan silenced you with a kiss, one that could melt even the hardiest of ice. It was blazing and passionate, yet slow enough to savor the moment. You reciprocated, palms flat atop his chest as he wrapped a thick, bulky arm around your hips, hauling you in until no sliver of space remained.

You kissed him fervently, allowing your many months of smothered affection to boil over. Despite Cregan’s indomitable, intimidating appearance, he was as gentle as they came. He handled you with respect, his other hand coming to seize your waist, kneading into your curves through your sparring leathers.

Tension boiled over, fueling the fire that had been stoked between the both of you for some time. Ravenous was a mere understatement — you wanted Cregan then and there, if he would indulge you. The ground was muddy and certainly no place to bed.

He bit at your lower lip with a grunt, brows furrowed together in concentration. He hunched in on you, bringing you flush against his body, heat replacing the bitter sting of the Northern chill. Cregan was rough, but inherently passionate with how he treated you — no malice, simply a wolf’s hunger.

“Cregan,” You huffed, mouth agape as you attempted to regain your composure. Whatever restraint you had was hanging on by a mere thread, prepared to snap. “I …” Admittedly, you were at a loss for words, still reeling from the shock of having your affections reciprocated.

His mouth pressed against your jaw as he buried his scruffy visage into the crook between your neck and shoulder. “Seems you’re cold, my Lady.” Cregan grunted, feeling the onslaught of gooseflesh that had permeated your skin, continuing to prickle along your spine.

With a brief chuckle, you reached for his chestnut tresses, tugging on his hair in order to bring him closer. “Fortunately, I have the King in the North to keep me warm,” You hummed, gasping when he brazenly groped at your haunch, strong hands kneading into you. “I want you, if you’ll have me.”

“Here?” Cregan uttered, timbre deliciously thick and husky with desire. Even if he wanted to claim you for himself, he would’ve taken you somewhere warmer, somewhere comfortable. “You’re no animal, my Lady. I wouldn’t fuck you into the dirt like one.” He rumbled, able to taste your yearning.

Honorable and gallant — you only wanted him more after that. As much as you desired to rip your armor off and let him have his way with you upon the rock, the mud and grime afterward wouldn’t have been pleasant. “Your chambers, then?” You mumbled, feeling his warm lips clamor from your jaw to your mouth.

“If that’s what you want,” Cregan murmured, a playful smirk toying at either corner of his mouth. It shattered his stoic countenance, melting away all of those dour inclinations he held before. “You might change your mind, and I wouldn’t fault you for it.”

A huff escaped you, brows furrowing together as you shook your head. Cregan thoroughly enjoyed that you spoke bluntly and plainly — he wanted you more than you realized, keeping his composure for the sake of propriety. There was no telling what could happen once you reached Winterfell.

“I will meet you at Winterfell.” Your answer was clear, solidified in stone. You appreciated that Cregan had given you an out, but that was the last thing you wanted. He gave you another kiss, teeth nicking your lower lip before you retrieved your longsword and mounted your horse.

Cregan watched you ride off from the Wolfswood — the new Lady of Winterfell.

A cold dusk cast its looming shadow over Winterfell, and with it, bringing the sting of ice and a light snowfall. Clouds made their presence known, gray and ominous, covering up the stars until none remained. Snowfalls in the North often ranged between fleeting and treacherous, and tonight seemed to be somewhere in the middle.

Following your dance in the Wolfswood with Cregan, the ride back to Winterfell gave you plenty to consider. You found his hesitation to be noble, but you had made your mind up some time ago. The moment where friendship now transcended into something else had come, and you knew what you wanted.

Perhaps you had kept him in suspense on purpose, waiting until the rest of the Great Keep was silenced before you made the tenuous trek to Cregan’s chambers. You had cleaned up perfectly well, clad in thick, furred robes, ones that left little to the imagination. You assumed that you wouldn’t be sleeping much tonight at all, if Cregan were still intending to follow through.

The doors to his chambers were heavy, embossed wood carved from the thick trunks of Wolfswood oak, the handles resembling the heads of wolves. There was no guard posted outside — there never was.

If anyone knew Cregan at all, it was his staunch independence and his desire for privacy. He was one of the greatest fighters in the Seven Kingdoms, and no guard would change such a thing. You stood outside, steeling yourself for what was to come.

Your hand hovered above the wood, palm pressing against it before you knocked thrice, breath hitching slightly at the sound of footsteps from the inside. Nervousness suddenly gripped you — none of this felt real at all, and you were prepared to wake up in some distant dream.

For the longest time, part of you had silently yearned from afar for Cregan, knowing that he would someday take a wife, and it wouldn’t be you. You were just friends, and you were cursed to admire him for all eternity with nothing coming to fruition. You had come to terms with it, but now?

Everything had changed.

He kissed you with a fervor in the Wolfswood, a kiss reserved for lovers — had he felt the same way, as you did? Was it simply the desire to have someone he trusted warm his bed? You were uncertain, and you wanted clarification.

The groan of oak reverberated throughout the stone corridors as Cregan opened the door, standing there, tall and indomitable, a tunic clinging to his chest. You could see so much more of him without the chain-and-leather armor, without the obstruction of a thick hide cloak. His broad shoulders seemed to relax in your presence.

Gods, you looked beautiful — Cregan had seen you dressed up on a handful of occasions, but they all paled in comparison to how you looked now, clad in the pelts of wolves, visage free of dirt. His grip tightened along the edge of the door, an effort to restrain himself from devouring you then and there.

“May I?” You asked, wringing your hands together in order to alleviate some of the tension. Cregan stepped aside, stormy-gray hues transfixed upon you as you crossed the threshold into his chambers. Your heart hammered within your chest as he shut the door, crossing the room to tend to the fire.

“I must know what this is, before we go any further.” Your voice was barely above a whisper, strained and desperate for an answer. “What have years of friendship come to, in your mind?” The question was direct, demanding that he state his intentions.

Cregan appeared perplexed, stepping toward you with a hooded expression. “Was that kiss in the Wolfswood not clear enough, my Lady?” He rumbled, hooking an arm around your hips. “I am a man of honor, and I wouldn’t dare tarnish your own. I am still your friend,” Cregan uttered, reaching up to cup your face, “And I am your lover.”

“If I wanted you to tarnish my honor?” You murmured, watching his countenance contort into a look of desire, as if you were invoking a challenge. Heat radiated from him in waves, sinking into your bones, making residence there. He was comfortable, a mountain of a man who held you so gently.

A brief huff escaped him, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, yet it did not come to fruition. “I would do as my lady commands.” He grunted, pressing a kiss against your jaw. You tasted perfect, if that were even an accurate description.

His honeyed, husky words excited you — his commitment to you was laid bare before you, and you felt a familiar surge of arousal deep within your bones. “No one else?” Possessiveness swelled within you — you wanted Cregan for yourself. If this were to become something serious, you would make it clear.

“I am yours,” Cregan murmured, chestnut brows furrowing together as he made his pledge to you. “And you are mine. I would not have it any other way.” He assured you, calloused hand kneading into the swell of your hip through the thick layer of fur that concealed your body. He wished to see it all for himself.

Your foreheads touched for a moment, and despite the charged, tenuous element of sexuality floating about, you quite enjoyed the tenderness of it. “I am yours, and you are mine.” The pledge was soft-spoken through you lips, prompting Cregan to press a kiss against the top of your head.

Without hesitation, your fingers curled into the coarse fabric of his tunic, gripping tightly as you pulled yourself up for a kiss, but Cregan met you halfway in a frenzy. His kiss was ravenous, filled with a rapturous hunger that did not appear subtle at all.

Gone was the chill of winter, replaced by the burning fire that smoldered between the both of you. He kissed you hard, teeth raking across your lower lip as he hauled you close, until there was no sliver of space left between. There was no shortage of desire or passion either, as Cregan’s hand pushed against the leather ties of your robe, wanting to feel your soft skin underneath.

“Cregan.” You exhaled, shivering when you heard that growl reverberate within his throat. Your hands joined him in their lascivious crusade, untethering the rough leather strings of your gown, loosening it up until it sagged upon your body. You nodded to him, a subtle signal that he could have whatever he wanted.

He pushed the thick material aside, watching as it fell around your feet, softly thudding against the stone. You wore nothing at all underneath, supple and beautiful, skin as soft as silk, all belonging to him. “Expecting something from me, were you?” Cregan murmured, pushing your tresses aside, exposing the expanse of your pretty neck to him.

A soft groan tore past your parted lips, belly filling with a fire that demanded to be extinguished. He pressed a hot trail of kisses along your face, starting there as he began to move downward. “Perhaps.” You huffed, listening to his chest vibrate with a brief bout of laughter. The sound was like music to your ears.

“You’re so beautiful.” He mumbled his praises into your flesh like a prayer. His roughened palm moved to clasp against the nape of your neck, digits reaching for your hair as he brought his mouth to your jaw, teeth and lips working in-tandem.

Cregan shivered when your colder fingertips hitched beneath his tunic, feeling the thick, corded muscle of his torso, the few scars here and there. Your digits toyed with the leather waist of his trousers, skimming upward to flatten your palm against his abdomen.

You moaned when he bit into your neck, hard enough to leave a mark, but delicate enough not to break through your skin. He felt along the soft dips and bends of your curves, traveling wherever he pleased until he sank his hands sank your haunches, unable to keep from touching you.

Everything about you invited him in, intentionally or unintentionally. The scent of various herbs and perfumes clung to you, intertwined with that of leather. Each embrace of his mouth was purposeful, burying into the hollow between your shoulder and throat, seeking to make his mark, imprint himself upon you.

He moved enough for you to remove his tunic, assisting in maneuvering the garment off and away from his body. You let it drop to the floor, kicking aside your robes to form a growing pile of garments.

Cregan was perfect — a true Northman, with a hardened body to prove it. He was all thick muscle and strength, sturdy and broad-shouldered. It was refreshing to see a man that didn’t lack in fortitude, and you reached forward, caressing your fingers over the plane of his musculature. He shuddered at your embrace, lips parting slightly.

He kissed you again, devouring your mouth with an unrestrained desire. Even if lust had taken hold, Cregan preferred displays of rough passion instead, wanting to show you just how much you meant to him, the things you did.

A growl stirred within his chest, hands grabbing your hips as he steered you toward the furs in front of the hearth. You reached for his head, tugging on his chestnut tresses as you reciprocated each kiss with one of your own, one that echoed his own fervor.

“Lay down.” He rumbled, gaze simmering with ardor as he watched you descend onto the furs, pelts of direwolves that enveloped you perfectly. Cregan towered over you, lowering himself onto his knees as he pushed your legs aside, bullying himself between them.

You shivered when he kissed your collarbone, roughened palm kneading into the pliant flesh of your thigh. He wanted to savor all of you first, taste you upon his tongue, let your scent linger. Cregan’s mouth was domineering and rough, biting wherever he could, listening to your satisfied whimpers.

“I want to taste you.” Cregan murmured, his voice a husky timbre that sent shockwaves throughout your body, striking at the pit of your stomach. It filled you with a sense of desire, goosebumps cascading along your spine. His inquiry was masked as a statement, but he awaited your approval.

Swallowing the growing lump within your throat, you nodded, feeling a lick of excitement trail down until it settled between your thighs. “Please.” It was all you really needed to say, your incendiary gaze alone inciting a rapturous hunger inside of him.

His descent was slow, ensuring that you felt every nip of his teeth, every kiss emblazoning itself upon your flesh. You sighed with passion, meeting his tempestuous, gray-eyed stare, one that smoldered with desire. You reached for his face, fingers sweeping around his jaw, and you watched as he kissed your palm.

The gesture was brief yet sweet, a break in the swelling tide of carnality and wanton need. Cregan pressed a kiss against your collarbone before he continued his downward venture, lips drifting over both of your breasts, hungrily making his mark against your sensitive skin.

A low grunt escaped him when your digits threaded themselves into his tresses instead, finding their purchase at the base of his skull. The warmth of his mouth drifted over your stomach, feeling Cregan bite at your hips, inhaling a gust of your saccharine scent. It drove him wild, the desire to claim you seeping into his bones.

Cregan wasn’t much of a talker during acts of sensuality — he preferred to show you through action, instead. When he made it to the apex of your thighs, he settled against the furs, orange firelight dancing across the taut, thick muscle of his shoulders. He pushed your legs apart, letting them rest across his back, rough hands kneading along your legs.

Your breath hitched within your throat, stomach churning with excitable butterflies and arousal. The slick warmth that had coagulated between your thighs was a welcome sight to Cregan, who felt a twinge of smugness knowing that you’d gotten wet already.

He listened to the tremor within your exhale, the squirming of your body atop the furs, the subtle twitch of your thigh when he bit into the sensitive flesh. You were endlessly soft — velveteen beneath his fingertips. The contrast between his rough palms and your smoothness was a perfect duality.

The gray intensity of his stare left you breathless, and he did not break eye contact as he kissed your slit, prompting you to shiver. His tongue raked hot embers across your aching cunt, deliberate and intentional, driving you to an agonizing madness.

Cregan pulled you closer, a growl ringing within the depths of his throat as he sought your cunt, greedily lapping over your slit. He split past your folds, ravenous for whatever you would give him. It made you moan, hand gripping his hair, hips absentmindedly jolting into the vigor of his mouth.

He seemed so herculean, even now as he rested between your legs, broad shoulders etched with a slight tension. His brow was creased in concentration, a low hum escaping him as he devoured your cunt. Cregan did not have any qualms about staying there, head buried between your thighs.

That taut heat within your stomach had been wound so tight, like a coil threatening to snap in two. His mouth was voracious, lapping and kissing wherever he pleased, with the enthusiasm of a man starved. He was passionate and somewhat rough, occasionally turning to bite into the pliant flesh of your thighs.

“Cregan,” You moaned, writhing beneath him, feeling his strong hands clamp down upon your legs, locking you into place. It was pure bliss and agony all rolled into one, your other hand fisting the thick furs beneath you. “Don’t stop,” A whine tore past your mouth, with the wolf more than willing to oblige. “Don’t stop.”

A huff escaped him, one that filled his belly with a raging fire. His cock throbbed within his leather breeches, aching with want for you. He wasn’t about to let you buck and move at your leisure — he wanted you all to himself. His tongue continued to lap at your cunt with heavy strokes, stoking the flame of your arousal.

You tasted sweet upon his tongue, honey-thick and a feast to sate his appetite. If he would choose his fate, it would be in between your legs, listening to the myriad of moans and throaty whimpers leave you. It was satisfying to know how much you enjoyed this; derived pleasure from it.

A tremor gripped your legs, little spasms of delight making their way throughout your body. Cregan’s mouth forged a blazing path from the hood of your cunt to your entrance, tongue greedy and hot, before he went back up again.

The sound of your soft, pleading voice calling his name made him grunt, digits digging into your thighs, hard enough to leave faint bruises. You enjoyed the display of strength, his desire to mark you, claim you for his own. The wolf festered within him, and you were prepared to submit to him.

Cregan was stoic and dominant, yet those storm-colored hues softened whenever they flickered toward your visage, the image of grace and beauty. You had always been pretty, yet your perfection reared its head fully when you opened yourself up to him. He was enthralled, reduced to a mere pup in your presence.

His mouth pursed around the pearl of your cunt, stimulating that sensitive clutch of nerves. You gasped, the sensation sudden yet blissful, causing your thighs to squeeze his head slightly. Cregan grunted, forcing you apart again, nose grazing your folds.

The growing shadow of his coarse beard scratched against your thighs, providing you with a brief sting — a delicious sting, at that. You had often teased Cregan for being baby-faced, but he had elected to grow out a bit of scruff, and for that, you were grateful.

He wanted to stay there, rooted between your legs, mouth consuming your cunt as if it were his last meal. Cregan favored it, thoroughly reveling in the way your body reacted to him, visceral and ecstatic. He gingerly suckled on your clit, feeling your fingers tighten within his chestnut locks, grip him tight.

The warmth from the hearth danced across your body, illuminating your soft curves and silky skin. Inklings of perspiration began to shimmer against your chest, the fire’s intensity combined with Cregan’s constant body heat. He ran hot, hot-blooded like any Northerner.

His mouth didn’t relent, continuing to suck and kiss at your clit, tongue flicking against your slick entrance. He let one hand drop from your thigh, yet the other still kept you pinned into place. The first stroke of his thick digits against your core made your head spin in a delirium of desire.

Your hips lurched forward, attempting to gain any shred of friction, despite Cregan keeping you locked into place. You felt as if you were going to explode, seeing stars within your vision as his teeth grazed your clit. The sudden sensation made you shiver, hand fisting into his hair.

Cregan teased your entrance, searching your face for any signs of discomfort as his digits worked their way inside of you. You were tight, slick and warm around him as he sluggishly pumped them in and out of you. “That’s it,” He rumbled, grunting when you pulled on his tresses again. “Easy, my lady.” His tone held a playful remnant to it.

A brief huff escaped you, one of mild amusement. The sweetness that ebbed between the both of you soon dissipated into an air of seriousness once again, with Cregan tormenting you, mouth on your clit. He drew each sound out of you with a vengeance, feeling your legs tremble on either side of him.

A comfortable silence filled the gap between you, intermingled with the sounds of your pleasured cries and Cregan’s sonorous grunts. That heated coil within your stomach began to unfurl, bringing an onslaught of arousal with it as you bucked into his mouth.

“Cregan,” You moaned, grabbing his hair so tightly that you feared you might rip it from his scalp. The roughness of it only spurred him on, enjoying your ironclad grasp as he assailed your cunt with careful laps and thrusts of his fingers. “Gods, I’m close!” You huffed, back arching off of the furs.

He wanted to do it to you again — again and again, make your body submit to him. Lust and passion swelled within him, blossoming through his chest, coupled with the possessiveness he felt over you. You belonged to him, now — his Lady of Winterfell, his.

Cregan didn’t intensify his pace or slow down, and instead, continued his ministrations with a sense of fervor and duty. His fingers and mouth worked in a blissful tandem, nose occasionally bumping into the hood of your clit, tongue dancing across your slit. He felt you shudder beneath him.

A flood of sheer ecstasy consumed you, flesh prickling with an overwhelming warmth as you shivered, reaching your climax in a white-hot crescendo. Your back arched completely, head tossed back against the furs, hands wrangling with Cregan’s tresses.

The buzz you felt afterwards was a pleasant feeling, and as you rode out your peak, you sank back into the mounds of wolf’s fur beneath you. Your grip began to slack on Cregan, enough for him to lift his head, gaze hooded and affectionate.

He pressed a series of sweet kisses along the inside of your thigh, reaching up to the bend of your knee. Perspiration glittered along his temples, but he was far from over — his hunger still prevailed. “You’ve got a grip like steel.” He grunted, moving forward to rest his head against your stomach.

A brazen, lascivious thought passed through him — your belly swollen with his child, an heir to Winterfell, a child of House Stark. It was reckless and wild to think of something so bold, but he couldn’t get it out of his head.

“Sorry,” You mumbled, somewhat flustered at your capability to nearly rip Cregan’s tresses right from their roots. He shook his head, his steely-eyed gaze flickering toward you. “I was quite consumed by the moment.” You confessed.

Cregan crawled forward, pressing a kiss against your mouth. You could taste yourself upon his tongue, evoking a whimper from between your lips. “Never apologize.” He rumbled, briefly nudging his forehead against yours. You observed him in silence, gaze swimming with affection as he rolled off of you.

He immediately stooped down to scoop you right off of the furs, hooking his bulky arms underneath you. You laughed, palms flat against the warm expanse of his chest, foreheads pressed together yet again. You didn’t need to say anything — you knew what came next.

Cregan gently deposited you onto his bed, his shadow eclipsing the glow of the firelight. He seemed massive at this angle, but his gentleness was notable with how he handled you. He unlaced the leather ties of his breeches, stepping out of them.

You happened to swallow at the sight of him — a mountain of a man, truly. A pang of nervousness struck at your gut, afraid that he wouldn’t fully fit inside of you, but it was fleeting. You knew that he would make sure that you were comfortable above all else.

His countenance, often laced with an unapproachable stoicism, softened at the sight of you — it wasn’t something commonplace. You had certainly eased the tension, his shoulders no longer weighted with stress or the burden of leadership.

A brief ghost of a smile tugged at his mouth — if you blinked, you might’ve missed it. “Are you smiling?” You whispered, doe-eyed and enamored with your Northman. Your hands trailed across the honed muscle of his shoulders, nails tracing across his back, and then to his chest.

Admittedly, it was difficult to keep a stony face around you, especially now, with your vibrant, exuberant smile and smitten gaze. Though, in the spirit of playfulness, he let out a rumbling hum, joining you atop his bed. The frame beneath groaned slightly in protest. “Perhaps.” He murmured.

He covered you with his burly physique, chestnut tresses framing his face, gray eyes drinking you in with a hint of tenderness. For as rough and rugged as he could be, Cregan became gentler for you — it wasn’t something he was used to.

Chest to chest, you craned forward, lips seeking his own as you kissed him. It was sickly-sweet, as gentle as a maiden, and Cregan found himself wanting you all over again. A low grunt of approval emerged from his throat, brows furrowing together as he reciprocated.

You reached for his bicep, palm unable to grip around the bulk of his muscle. It made you realize how much smaller you really were than him, in all senses of the word — stature and muscle mass. He had all the advantages on you, but you quite enjoyed the amusing contrast of sizes.

To Cregan, it thoroughly aroused him, seeing your silky digits attempt to wrap around his arm, only to fail miserably. He treated you like a prized jewel, afraid to harm you, afraid to drop you — it made his cock twitch against your thigh, and he heard the hitch within your throat.

“I’ll be gentle.” Cregan assured you, calloused palm gliding along the length of your thigh in an attempt to ease your worrying. You feared that he would split you in half with his cock — not that it was a terrible way to go, but you did want to walk on the morrow.

He lowered his head to your chest, peppering kisses all along your breasts and collarbone, the ridge of his nose brushing over your sternum. The tip of his hardened length slid across your slick entrance, prompting you to shiver with anticipation.

With a shove of his hips, the head of his cock pushed into your cunt, his girth and size something you needed to adjust to. A strangled whine left you, lips agape and slack, hands clawing at his biceps as he gingerly made his way inside of you, inch by agonizing inch.

The discomforting pang of being stretched made your body crawl, attempting to get comfortable beneath him. Cregan noticed the twinge of pain that fluttered across your countenance, and he soothed you with a kiss against your brow, palm still caressing your thigh.

It felt incredible — certainly an adjustment, but pleasurable nonetheless. The girth of his cock filled you completely in ways you hadn’t felt before, and you knew that he would be the only one you would ever want. Discomfort inevitably dissipated into bliss as Cregan gave you time to grow used to him.

“Need you to move,” You whimpered, noticing the fire burning within his eyes, like smoldering embers come to life. Those stormy-gray hues drank you in with the hunger of a starving wolf, and he moved your back up enough to place a feather pillow beneath your hips. “Cregan.”

The newfound angle made you reel from ecstasy, feeling the way in which his cock hit that spot of pleasure for you. He shuddered when you moaned his name, and it activated something salacious inside of him. He thought of you, the Lady of Winterfell, Lady Stark, full and round with his child, his heir.

He moved, then.

His hips snapped forward as he attempted to restrain himself from fucking you into a stupor, executing a great amount of gentleness, fueled with an amorous intensity. Cregan was passionate, cock rutting into you, hitting new depths as he began to show you just how much he wanted you.

A grunt left him when your knees bumped into his hips, occasionally squeezing him like a vice, but the bulk of his musculature kept you properly spread apart. Your mouth clamored for his, lips meeting in a tangle of tongue and teeth. Your nails dug into the thick muscle of his bicep, other hand reaching for the nape of his neck.

You felt him reach for your hand, roughened digits intertwining with yours as he placed it beside your head, pounding into you with a gentle fervor. Cregan was tempered and measured about his movements, sheathing his cock inside of you fully with each thrust.

A myriad of needy moans and whimpers left you, and you did little to conceal the height of their volume. You groaned into Cregan’s mouth when he snapped forward again, and you felt as if he might break you in half — in the best way possible, of course.

His cock was akin to the force of a battering ram in slow motion, ensuring that every thrust drove you to madness, your walls tight around him. The friction between your bodies only contributed to the tension, your chest snug against his, lips tangled together, his roughened digits groping at your thigh.

Your nails raked faint trails of red across the thick muscle of his bicep, prompting him to growl into your mouth, kissing you as if it would be his very last time. There was a subtle desperation to Cregan, coupled with that innate instinct to breed, fill you with his seed and let you carry his child.

The Northern winds began to howl outside, bringing with it an onslaught of snow, and yet you had never been warmer, happily trapped beneath the herculean mass of Cregan Stark. Your foreheads touched on occasion, each kiss building with want until it had exploded into something hot and messy.

Perspiration lingered upon both of your bodies, as his chambers became increasingly hot, like that of a fever pitch. Cregan used some of his body as leverage, pushing himself inside of you again, cock sheathed within you completely until he pulled back, and thrust again. The action became increasingly intense, yet he kept himself in-check.

Your body was perfect, a sight for him alone, made by the Old Gods — he couldn’t thank them enough. Cregan gave you another blistering kiss, letting you linger upon his tongue before he withdrew, mouth lowering towards your chest once more. He was hellbent on pleasing you while chasing after his own release.

As he took one of your breasts into his maw, he felt the sly return of your digits tangling within his hair, and he couldn’t help but briefly smirk into your flesh. He reveled in the way you manhandled him so brazenly, gripping him tightly as your leg hitched around his hips.

Cregan didn’t relent, cock driving into you with a needy force, aching and throbbing inside of you. Your thighs twitched and trembled, and he continued to trace his hand across it before grabbing at your haunch, pliant flesh filling his palm.

Grunts and low rumbles escaped him, colliding with your own symphony of moans and whimpers, desperate for him to come undone. You rolled your hips forward whenever you could, friction creating another delicious wave of heat between the both of you.

He gently bit at your chest, face nestled there as his pace became a touch quicker, cock battering into you, kissing your slick cunt over and over again. Those tantalizing fantasties of filling you with his seed tormented him, driving him into a frenzy.

He hit that spot between your legs that seemed to make you writhe, grabbing at his chestnut tresses, back arching slightly as he turned your senses into mush. Cregan groaned, the sound heavy and husky in your ear as he came, spilling himself deep inside of you. He continued to thrust into you afterwards, the motions considerably softer and less invigorated.

A huff escaped him, a quick breath to regain his composure. His stamina was rather impressive, and if you asked it of him, he would’ve continued on well into the night, but your countenance seemed etched with mild exhaustion.

You whimpered when he stayed inside of you, head bowing towards yours as he pressed a kiss against your forehead, and then to your lips. The gesture was inherently tender despite his rough demeanor, enough for you to loosely drape your arms around his shoulders.

Cregan rolled over to lay next to you, his large form taking up a sizable portion of his bed. He coaxed you close, thick arm snaking around you as he tugged you into the warm expanse of his chest, propped up against the pillows.

The silence was a comforting one, a blissful aftermath of affectionate sentiments and declarations of adoration. He made sure that you were comfortable, shrouding you in the blanket of wolf pelts, showering you in gentle kisses. His grasp was inherently protective, as if he were shielding you from some invisible force.

“Are you alright, my Lady?” Cregan uttered, checking to see if you were unwell. He sometimes got carried away in the moment, and you weren’t exactly tall and stocky like himself. He needed to accommodate you, and that sometimes included being gentler.

With a smitten smile, you nodded, peering up at him through your lashes. Your thighs continued to scream with a dull ache, cunt throbbing and sticky with his seed and your arousal. “Very much so.” You replied, head resting atop his chest as you traced patterns against his abdomen. “If I weren’t so spent, I would ask you to do it again.”

A brief huff of amusement left Cregan, who held you close, reaching for your hand as he cradled it within his own, his other hand firmly situated atop the swell of your hip. “I cannot promise that I would not ravage you the second the opportunity arose.” He murmured, pressing a kiss against the top of your head.

“If that’s what I wanted?” You challenged, noticing the way his expression contorted into a look of desire, but above all, pure devotion. Cregan enjoyed your flirtatious remarks and subtle challenges, chest vibrating with a hum of approval.

“Then you are in for a long night, Lady Stark.”

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