#forced stripping tw

[kaapstadgirly]

THEY ARE BOMBING RAFAH!!

How evil must you be to be able to lie and chase 1.5+ million people into such a small "safe" space and drop bombs on them?!

These are kids!!! Was 12 000 not enough for them?

[autiebiographical]

I'm not labeled "high functioning autistic" because of how well I function, but how well I hide my autism.

[befuddled-calico-whump]

Riot Kings, page 179.0

first // prev // next

[formulapookie]

💛💛

Under the cut to read on tumblr, here to read on Ao3

chapter 1 ; chapter 2

Les fleurs du mal rosquez, 2.1k words

Next race is two weeks later, championship finale, and Marc has been feeling increasingly worse for these past days.

The coughing had gone on almost non-stop, sometimes accompanied by petals, sometimes just a bothersome feeling of suffocation.

He doesn’t precisely know when, but some of the petals have started coming out colored a deep blue now, the yellow still there, perfectly matching Vale’s color scheme.

He had a half thought of reaching out to Vale, telling him about his situation, and telling him how truly hurt he was.

But he ultimately didn’t, he couldn’t - after last time, when he tested on his skin what hate meant he couldn’t bear the thought of being close to Vale without breaking down.

It had only gone worse, from his visit to Vale’s motorhome, he could feel his lungs crush under the pressure of the roots around them.

His brother knew something was wrong but couldn’t say what, Marc hadn’t spoken to him about his problem at all, and much less to his father.

His mother, well she didn’t need any kind of words to know what was happening to him, not after he had yelled at her when he came back and found his room stripped of any kind of reference to Vale, the room who was supposed to be his sanctuary, the room he wanted to photograph and send to Vale to remind him.

Remind him he had been there, had seen it all, reminding him how they had shared his room for more than a night.

And it was all gone, as if it was never there, just a ghost in Marc’s heart.

Marc had yelled so much to her his throat closed, he had begun coughing and gasping for air, until a bunch of petals had come out his mouth, falling to the ground, next to the cardboard boxes where his mother had carefully put away all the collection bikes and the poster.

The cap and the framed picture on top of them, the helmet stored in another box, wrapped so as not to ruin it.

He had cried then, cried so much he barely could breathe, and his mother had just held him, trying to calm him down as more petals made their way out of his lungs.

“per què fa tant mal mare?  Vull que s'aturi, si us plau, necessito que s'aturi”  (Why does it hurt so much mom? I want it to stop, please, I need it to stop)

“perquè estimes amb tot el cor, i la gent no és tan amorosa com tu, Marc” (Because you love with all your heart, and people are not as loving as you, Marc)

“Em fa tant mal que no puc respirar, per què m'odia? Em va dir que m'estimava. Per què m'odia? L'estimo mare, l'estimo” (It hurts so much I can’t breathe, why does he hate me? He told me he loved me. Why does he hate me? I love him mom, I love him)

“Ho sé, ho sé, l'estimes tant que estàs disposat a no sotmetre's a l'operació perquè tens por d'oblidar-lo” (I know, I know, you love him so much you’re willing not to undergo the operation because you’re scared you’ll forget him)

“Només vull que em torni a estimar” (I just want him to love me back)

“Ho sé Marc, ho sé” (I know Marc I know)

He had passed out in his mother’s arms, tears all over his face and lungs burning.

He didn’t understand how Vale could hate him so much after all the promises he made, all the murmured “I love you”s between the sheets, all the sweet glances when he stayed over at Vale’s.

He's preparing for the press con now, quali gone, he had crashed a few minutes to the end, he had trouble getting up, but he had managed to get a few good laps in.

The crash had made him lose breath, the little one he still has.

For a game of sorts, he’s sat next to Vale at the press con, and he hates it.

He’ll see how pathetic he looks like this, how lonely and miserable he is without Vale in his life.

They don’t speak, Vale ignores him completely if not to bad mouth him to the press, who like flies on honey is eager to get the micro expressions on Marc’s unreadable face.

When the journalists turn to Lorenzo for some questions Vale strikes.

It’s calculated, cruel, made to hurt.

“You like helping him uh? You sucked his dick too? Did you go to him and let him fuck you as a thank you for letting him win? Did he fuck you well Marc? I bet you enjoyed his dick so much given how you ran to me immediately after to suck me off”

“Stop it Vale please”

“Ah stop what? I’m having fun here aren’t you? Does he know how you like to be treated like the whore you are?”

Marc can’t hold it anymore, not with the amount of cruelty Vale is throwing his way.

He starts to cough, turning towards Vale, and the petals fall from his lips, they’re of a dark deep blue.

He can’t stay here, he just can't, he has to get out this damn press con now.

Vale is staring at the petals, one of them has landed on his lap. The room has gone silent, one can only hear Marc‘s all-but- hidden coughs as he runs out the room.

The journalists are frozen, Vale rushes out the room.

He doesn’t make it too far before noticing Marc leaning over a bin coughing and puking those fucking yellow and blue petals.

Some of the people standing out of the press con room start to take out phones and cameras to record Marc.

Vale tries to get close to Marc, somehow shield him from the flashing of the phones and the fuckers taking pictures of him, but Marc just pushes him away.

Yells at him to go away.

And Vale is shocked because he never heard Marc yell, much less would he have expected Marc to yell at him.

He tries to get close again, understand if what’s happening is truly what he thinks is happening.

And Marc now just looks like a wounded animal, and he hates it; he hates it even more than being insulted by Vale. He's weak in front of who knows how many people, he’s weak in front of Vale.

He feels one of Vale’s hands on his arms and jerks away with force.

“Don’t touch me!”

He’s crying, face red and his whole body is shivering.

Vale doesn’t really make out what is going on, it’s all too confusing right now.

He only sees a flash of blue, speeding right next to him, and closing the distance to Marc as he’s frozen there.

“Marc let's go away I’m taking you to the medical center come on, let’s go” 

As he focuses back on reality he only understands Lorenzo has come to Marc’s rescue, somehow, and managed to drag him away.

He’s standing there, the flashing of phones disturbing, press con canceled, his mind racing.

He walks back to his motorhome, everyone saw the press con, he avoids talking to people.

Meanwhile Marc has been taken to the med center, he didn’t want to go, he tried to free himself from Jorge’s hold, but the older man just didn’t let go, he was stronger than him in this situation, Marc too debilitated by the illness.

When he arrives at the center he’s shivering, his body is burning, he’s coughed so many times he feels his whole throat scratch and tear at every breath he takes, his lungs feel caged in an intricate maze of roots.

He’s crying and sweating and shivering, he looks like he’s on the verge of a collapse from how much his body is out of his control.

“Marc you have to focus back on where you are I need you to focus on where you are”

The voice of the doctor seems far, as if he’s talking through a glass door.

He somehow manages to get back, resurface to reality.

The coughing stops, for now at least, but the fever is really high, and the tremors are only slightly better.

“Marc, were you aware you were suffering from Hanahaki?”

“Yes”

Marc’s voice sounds so feeble and thin he doesn’t think it’s him doing the talking.

“I need your consent and signature here to have you transported to the hospital for the surgery, we caught it in time luckily, you just need to sign here and I’ll-“ “No” “Marc don’t be stupid sign the damn form” “No” “Marc, you understand the risk you’re putting yourself through?”

“Yes. I can’t - I just can’t forget him, you get it? I know he’ll - with a bit more time he’ll love me back. He’ll love me again. I can’t have the surgery. I have to race tomorrow I have no time”

Jorge is just staring into the void, he can’t believe this kid is wiling to fucking risk his life for what? Valentino Rossi? 

Because no matter the fact Marc has not said his name, he’s got heart eyes for him since they met, and the two of them were all but subtle.

He is willing to sacrifice his health  for a man so egotistical he dares to blame this same kid for ruining his chance at a tenth title?

A kid who for fuck’s sake is willing to endure this inferno just because he can’t think of living without the knowledge of who Vale is?

The same Vale who’s now sitting in his motorhome, on his couch, silent, trying to elaborate what he just saw.

A feeling of guilt is gnawing at his guts, twisting them in a way he doesn’t like in the slightest.

He had been pushed away by Marc. First time in history he was the one who was pushed away, yelled at, distanced.

And it feels fucking horrible.

The door opens slightly, Uccio sneaks in, an ugly looking grin on his face.

“What the fuck did I do Uccio”

There’s silence, the man doesn’t answer, he waits for Vale to finish.

“I - that’s a kid I - he was puking petals fucking God, they were all blue and and yellow I - oh God”

“I don’t think those petals were for you Vale”

At this Vale gets up, he’s angry, and something else Uccio can’t quite figure out.

“Not for me? The fuck do you mean not for me? Yellow and blue remind you of something Uccio? Huh? Maybe I don’t know, MY fucking colours? The ones I’ve been wearing all the time? Why the fuck are you saying shit like this? Why - why did you come to me saying he - he would ruin my championship”

Uccio takes a step back, Vale is too close to him and a bit too angry for his liking.

Every word he speaks is like poison to Vale’s mind and heart, it takes over everything else, over every rational thought.

“There weren’t any yellow petals Vale. Just blue. Blue petals each time he coughed. And look, look how he pushes and yells you away and look how when Lorenzo comes close he melts in his arms. What does blue make you think of?”

“Me, Yamaha for fucks sake”

“Yamaha. But whose one? Look how the coughing stops here, when Lorenzo goes to drag him away”

The sequences playing on the ipad screen are undeniably those Uccio spoke about.

He was sure he had seen yellow petals, he was sure.

Like he was sure Marc wasn’t responsible for the losing of the tenth, until Uccio had shown him proof.

every cough two or three blue petals coming out his mouth, Marc pushing him away, Lorenzo being accepted as a savior.

“The petals are not for you Vale. They’re for Lorenzo. Why else would he have helped him win? Why else would the petals be blue? Why else would he trust only Lorenzo to be close?”

And the little poison Uccio is spreading with his words gets to Vale, it digs its way to his brain, to his heart. 

Marc truly helped Lorenzo win because of a more intricate and complicated relationship between the two.

Marc. Marc wasn’t suffering because of him. He didn’t play a part in it. 

He knows because he was shown evidence.

Like the telemetry. Yes. The telemetry it - it was clear from there.

Marc is not his. Marc can suffer on his own.

Because it’s not his fault after all, if Lorenzo doesn’t love him back.

[the-lady-maddy]

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[whumpflash]

cw: slavery, dehumanization, noncon strip/nudity (nonsexual), adult language, alcohol mention

previous ///// masterlist ///// next

×××

The sun was rising when they reached the slavers' camp. The journey has dampened Judd's unwanted hangover enough for him to focus, and he made an effort to determine their direction of travel.

East. Right into the fucking sun.

He angled his head to avoid the light, doing anything he could to lessen the pounding in his skull.

Fucking wine. He almost wished Skye would've just kicked his ass instead of resorting to creativity. It had been almost a whole day since he'd had any water, and the booze only served to rush the dehydration process.

Water first, he thought. Then I'll get the hell out.

The slaver camp was a lot smaller than the site Judd called home, just a few makeshift buildings and a public area protected from the sun by a tarp. There was a weapons rack, and a pile of what looked like spare speeder parts. Tools he could use to escape, or fight his way out when the time was right.

He tried to ignore the other objects in the area. Shackles. Whips. A metal pole with a length of chain welded to it, and a small rusted cage a foot away from that. Cage and manacles were both empty. He'd find no allies here, but there didn't seem to be many enemies either. Aside from the two that had snatched him, there were only a handful others, coming out of their huts or getting up from cleaning their weapons to see what their buddies had returned with.

Judd was dumped just shy of the shade, struggling to lift his head as a pair of boots came into view. They were attached to a woman, well-muscled and covered in freckles.

"Brought me back a treasure, eh?" she said, lifting his chin with the toe of her boot. He jerked away, falling back onto the cracked dirt, and wincing as the movement drove a fresh spike of pain through his head. 

"Wreck was deserted by the time we got there, but this idiot made the mistake of sticking around," Rika replied.

Sticking around? Yeah, picking on the kid had been a mistake, but Judd wasn't fucking stupid.

"What do you think, Sonora?" Rika's partner said. "Good haul?"

"Should make us a pretty penny," the other woman said, approval in her voice. "Get it settled in."

It. He was already written off as an object to them, something that had no value aside from a price tag.

The pair moved to obey her, dragging Judd under the tarp and into the marginally cooler shade. His arms—by now well past aching—were freed at last from Skye's bindings. Rope was swiftly replaced with metal cuffs, each one connected to a long chain that trailed upward, wrapping around a beam that sat a few feet above his head.

Not just a beam, he saw, noticing gears on either side of it, interlocking all the way down to hip height, where a handle jutted out. Some kind of mechanism, probably designed to shorten his leash whenever they saw fit.

Clearly the group had way too much time on their fucking hands, but if nothing else, the machine told him this was their permanent base.

Good. When he got out, he'd come back here with a hoard of scavs. Burn it down.

"Let's get a look at it," Sonora said, and Rika moved to the handle, confirming his suspicions as she cranked it until the chains were taut and his arms were suspended above his head. Maybe it was procedure, maybe she'd just made up her mind to give him misery, but she didn't lock the mechanism in place until Judd's feet were barely touching the ground.

He cursed through the gag, shooting her a hateful glare that was pointedly ignored.

Sonora selected a knife from the weapons rack and closed the distance on him. He did his damnedest to jerk back as she set the blade against his chest, but she didn't cut him, instead slicing through the fabric of his shirt.

Judd let out a muffled yell of protest as she moved to his jacket, a fancy sun-reflecting thing he'd paid out the ass for. She didn't seem to care what it was, cutting it away without hesitation and discarding it at his feet.

His pants and boots followed it, but Sonora didn't stop there, slicing away in cool-eyed silence until he was stark naked.

Judd tried to reign in his pride and breathe steady through the gag. If he let the frustration, the humiliation, get to him, it would just make his headache that much worse.

Nudity didn't bother him. Water was too scarce for showering to be a private affair, and scavs were generally too pragmatic to find a lack of clothes taboo.

This was different. This was being put on display, stared at by his captors while they figured out how much he was worth.

I'll break out. Pick the locks. They'll be sorry.

"Hm," Sonora said, and he flinched as she ran a finger across his abdomen. "Strong enough for the pits, pretty enough to be a pet. What do you think?"

Rika snorted. "I think it's the highest bidder's choice."

"So it is." She stepped back, kicking away the remains of Judd's clothing. "Go ahead and let it down. Can't put it up for auction half-dead."

Rika pulled back on the lever, and the chains went slack. Judd cried out as he hit the ground, pain shooting through his knees as they took most of the impact. It was becoming more and more difficult to want to get up, but he did, pushing himself to a sitting position with a groan.

Sonora had reappeared beside him, a canteen in her hand.

Water.

She was close enough that he could probably grab her. Get her weapon, use her as a bargaining chip. But he was too thirsty to try.

She reached behind his head, untying his gag and removing it from his bone-dry mouth.

Despite the burning urge to start cussing her out, Judd held back. Drink first. He reached for the canteen, but Sonora took a quick step back.

"Ah ah. You get what I give you or you get nothing," she chided. "And I only give what is earned."

Because of fucking course she did.

"Kneel," Sonora continued. "Hands on your knees, head bowed. Show me you can be obedient."

As debasing as it was to follow her commands, Judd wasn't about to give up the water. He moved to his knees, glaring up past sweat-damp hair.

"That snarl could use some work, but we have time," Sonora said. "Good boy."

All reason fled his body at her words, his head snapping up. "The fuck did you just call me?"

Behind him, Rika let out a short laugh. "Told ya it had a mouth."

"It just needs to learn some respect," Sonora said, looking vaguely annoyed.

"My name is Judd," he spat.

"You don't have a name anymore," she replied, not flinching as he lunged forward, the chains halting his movement before he got within a foot of her. The sudden stop, combined with his bound ankles, unbalanced him, and he landed gracelessly on his side.

He saw Rika reach for a whip, but Sonora held up a hand to stop her.

"It has enough scars as is. We don't need any new marks before auction."

"My name is—" He was cut off by a boot to the gut from Rika.

"Bruises will heal," she said, in response to the stern look from Sonora, who sighed and shook her head.

"I'm sure they will. You and Bo go ahead and get some sleep. I'll take it from here."

As Rika and her partner disappeared into one of the huts, Sonora moved to the mechanism Judd was attached to, adjusting the upper bar until it was level with the ground, then reeling in the chains until he had no room to move, arms once again restrained behind him. Once that was done, she left.

Judd let his head drop, drawing his knees up to his chest. Maybe he was stupid. Letting his anger get in the way of fucking survival.

She'd be back, wouldn't she? They'd gone through the trouble of taking him, they wouldn't just let him die and miss out on their payday.

He pulled at the cuffs. Just needed to wait until Sonora tried again. He'd choke down his pride and comply. Get her to drop her guard.

It hadn't been long before she returned, still holding the canteen. She knelt in front of him, much closer now that he was locked up tight.

"Good boys get water," she said, but held the canteen to his lips anyway. 

He drank so quickly he almost choked, feeling relief wash over him as the liquid ran down his throat. It wasn't until he'd drained the entire thing that he noticed the strange aftertaste.

Sickly sweet, like something on the verge of rotting.

He knew what was coming then, the kind of bullshit these people would resort to in order to keep him down. Sonora smiled at him as she capped the canteen.

"Bad boys get Compliance."

×××

tag list:

@kira-the-whump-enthusiast

[theforesteldritch]

Reading about how intersex athletes have been treated is so fucking horrible. The countless lies and human rights violations. The discrimination and how it's ruined the lives of so many people is so awful. There has been no apologies from any athletics comptetions or organizations. They have blood on their hands. Just a tw for intersexism and mental health issues and suicide in the next paragraph because it can get pretty heavy.

Annet Negesa, who was a middle distance runner. She was suddenly barred from competing due to her hormones. No one told her why. She was then told she needed to take medication to lower her testosterone, then what she was told was switched. She was lied to about a surgery that she was told was like an injection and would let her compete again. She woke up with scars and had had a gonadectomy. That violation of basic human rights and medical ethics combined with inadequate postsurgical care basically ended her career. She deserves justice. She deserves apologies from the Olympics and everyone single doctor who was involved in it, and compensation and the promise that it should never have happened and will never happen again. She. Needs. Justice.

Pratima Gaonkar needs justice. She was a rising track and field star. After forced sex verificatiom she killed herself. The way media and news treated her after her death was disgusting. She deserves and needs justice. Her family deserves justice.

Santhi Soundarajan had her medals stripped and was treated as an outcast after forced sex verification showed she had androgen insensitivity syndrome. She was treated as an outcast, her gender was mocked. She's spoken out about how much discrimination she's faced, and how badly she's been treated. She now works as a coach, but was barred from competing. She deserves justice.

Caster Semenya deserves justice. Francine Niyonsaba deserves justice. Margaret Wambui deserves justice. Barbra Banda deserves justice. Beatrice Masilingi and Christine Mboma deserve justice.

The racism and intersexism and horrible human rights violations and medical abuse these women have faced for the supposed crime of being intersex and good at a sport is horrible. They deserve justice, but the organizations that perpetuate these atrocities don't seem to care. It's so fucking horrible.

[intoxicating-goddess]

TW - intox, somno, cnc, forced breeding

We're talking on a video call like we usually do in the evenings. I'm smoking a bowl to help wind down for the night. When I finish, you suggest I might want to do another. I've been really stressed out lately, it'd be helpful to have a little more, you tell me. I have been stressed lately, why not? I fill another bowl half way, but you convince me to make it another full one. After I'm done the second bowl, you can see how faded I am. I tell you that the weed is hitting me really hard and I think I'm gonna go lie down. You wish me well and say goodnight. I stumble through the house in a stoned haze, eventually making it into bed. I drowsily strip myself of my clothes before rolling over and falling asleep. I'm too deep in slumber to hear the door unlock. I gave you a spare key for emergencies, after all. You creep into my bedroom and see my naked body sprawled across the bed. You quietly take off your clothes and climb on top of me. Kissing your way down my back while running your hands all over my limp body. Feeling up my ass and tits and then finally, my pussy. I let out soft moans in my sleep. As you rub my clit and fondle my ass, I start to become wet. You then line yourself up with my slick entrance and ram your entire cock inside me. I wake with a scream, a concoction of panic and pleasure. As you begin violently thrusting, I try to get my bearings. My head is so dizzy and my body is so heavy. I let out a feeble scream as I try to resist, but it's no use. My body is far to weak and I can't put up a fight. I am pinned in place by the weight of your body on top of me. I have no idea who is inside me, but I can't seem to focus on anything but how good it feels. You lean down on top of me and begin grabbing at my breast. You pinch my nipple and I can't help but let out a moan. You chuckle softly between grunts, you know a filthy whore like me likes being used. Your thrusts are so hard and deep that it doesn't take long for me to cum on your cock. You continue to fuck me for what feels like hours. I am so out of it that I have no concept of time. I eventually let myself drown in the pleasure. It doesn't matter who is fucking me, the only thing that matters is how good it feels. After you've lost track of how many times you've made me to cum, you feel yourself get close. Your thrusts become faster and faster. You pull my hips hard against you, forcing your cock as deep into my pussy as possible. With a loud grunt, you let your load out inside me. You pull out and let my hips go, causing me to slump onto the bed. You watch as your seed seeps out of my throughly used pussy. You then put your clothes back on and leave, locking the door behind you. I lay in the wet patch knowing I should feel mortified, but instead I feel euphoric. Having my rapists seed pouring from my violated pussy turns me on all the more. It's not long before the exhaustion and intoxication lull me back into a deep sleep. I sleep well knowing my only purpose is to be a good cocksleeve. It doesn't matter if I'm conscious or not.

[the-lady-maddy]

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[seafarersdream]

Cregan x reader where the reader is betrothed to him but he gets close to Alysanne Blackwood and she feels insecure. But he then reassures her that he loves her. Could be fluff or smut, whatever you feel fits

Big Bad Wolf | 18+ (Cregan Stark x Y/N)

Y/N knows exactly why she has been sent to the frigid North: her grandsire, Otto Hightower, intends for her to secure Cregan Stark’s loyalty to the Greens with a proposed betrothal. A union that would bind the North to her family’s cause and strengthen her brother’s claim. She can’t help but wonder what he would sees in her—a willing pawn, a coveted prize, or perhaps, an unexpected adversary?

TW // Strong language and profanities, mild sexual content, mention of injuries and wounds, slow burn romance.

Note: I took a slightly different approach than originally requested to better align with my brainstorming ideas. I hope you all enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it! And fair warning—it ended up being around 10k words because I got carried away and so into it😂

The wind howls around her like a beast, its icy fingers clawing at her cloak, desperate to strip her bare. Y/N Targaryen pulls the fur-lined fabric tighter around her shoulders, her silver hair whipping against her face as she stares out into the endless expanse of white that is the North.

The cold is sharp, biting against her skin, a relentless assault unlike anything she has ever felt in King’s Landing. There, the sun always warmed the walls of the Red Keep, the gardens bloomed with vibrant flowers, and the salty sea breeze carried the smell of soils from distant lands. Here, in the North, all of that feels like a distant memory—a dream now buried under layers of snow.

She shivers, and not just from the cold.

Being a Targaryen means something. Being a Targaryen princess means the realm is her oyster. She has always known this. The daughter of the late King Viserys Targaryen and the sister to the current ruler, Y/N has never wanted for anything. Born under the banners of black and red, her birthright is as weighty as it is illustrious. In the courts of King's Landing, her name alone is a force that can command, bend, and break. The Valyrian blood coursing through her veins has bestowed upon her an otherworldly beauty—hair the colour of moonlight, eyes that burn like molten silver. She is used to men and women alike vying for her favor, hanging on her every word, their desires evident in their eyes. She is used to being adored, admired, even envied.

But here, in the North, none of that means a thing.

The North is a different world, an ancient one with a heartbeat of ice and snow. It is a world where the name Targaryen carries little weight, where dragons are the stuff of nightmares, not symbols of power and strength.

For thousands of years, the North stood as its own kingdom, ruled by House Stark of Winterfell—a house older than her own, as old as the First Men themselves. The North submitted to Aegon the Conqueror’s rule, but submission is not the same as surrender. She can feel the weight of that history in every flake of snow, every gust of wind that threatens to unseat her from the back of her horse. The North remembers.

And the North does not care for Targaryen princesses.

The men and women who stare at her from the edges of Winterfell’s courtyard do not see a daughter of kings. They see a southerner, a foreigner, an outsider draped in silk and furs too fine for their taste. They see someone who has never felt the bite of a northern winter, who does not understand the constant struggle for survival that defines their lives. To them, she is the very embodiment of everything they disdain—the soft courtly life, the excesses of the south, the endless games of backstabbing and ambition that mean nothing in the face of a harsh winter. Her beauty, her title, her blood—none of it matters here. She is a stranger in a strange land, and they watch her with eyes that are cold and calculating.

It is a stark contrast to the life she has known. In King’s Landing, courtiers flocked to her side, eager for a smile, a kind word, a glance that might change their fortunes. But here, no one bows or scrapes, no one offers her flattery or fawning attention. Instead, they glance at her with a mixture of suspicion and curiosity, their expressions as unreadable as the frozen ground beneath her feet. Even the cold here seems to seep into their bones, hardening their faces into masks of stone.

Her gaze shifts to the man standing at the center of it all—the Warden of the North, Cregan Stark. He is as unyielding as the walls of Winterfell, a man carved from the very ice that surrounds them. His dark hair is touched with frost, his grey eyes piercing through the flurries like a direwolf scanning the wood for prey. He regards her with a guarded expression, his features stoic, as though he is measuring the weight of her presence in his hall. There is strength in his stance, a raw, quiet power that seems to ripple beneath his skin like a river beneath ice.

She knows why she is here. Her grandsire, Otto Hightower, has sent her north with a proposal for a betrothal, hoping to secure Cregan Stark's allegiance to the Greens. A marriage alliance that would bind the North to her family, to her brother’s cause. But she also knows that such an alliance is easier proposed than accepted. The Starks are proud, stubborn as the wolves on their banners, and they are not easily swayed by promises or threats. She wonders what Cregan Stark sees when he looks at her—a pawn, a prize, a potential enemy?

Y/N squares her shoulders, forcing herself to meet his gaze with the same intensity. Her breath mists in the cold air between them, mingling with the snowflakes that drift down from the leaden sky. She is a Targaryen, born of fire and blood, and she will not be cowed by the cold.

She takes a step forward, her boots crunching in the snow, and inclines her head with a grace born of years at court. “Lord Stark,” she begins, her voice steady despite the chill that bites at her skin, “I bring greetings from my family and an offer that I hope will interest you.”

For a moment, there is silence, broken only by the distant howl of the wind. The Northmen are watching, waiting for their lord’s response. Cregan Stark’s grey eyes remain locked on hers, his expression unreadable, and she feels the weight of the North pressing down upon her.

“Princess,” Cregan replies at last, his voice a low rumble that echoes across the courtyard. “Welcome to Winterfell.”

And with those words, the game begins.

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Y/N Targaryen has always been more her grandsire’s granddaughter than her mother’s daughter—or her father’s, for that matter. Not that it has been much of a choice. King Viserys had been many things in his life—gentle, soft-hearted, more comfortable with scrolls and histories than with the complexities of ruling—but present, he was not. His love for Rhaenyra, his firstborn, was the love of a man whose affections had been spent long before Y/N was ever born. So, she learned quickly that if she wanted attention, guidance, or even a semblance of familial warmth, she would find none of it in her father.

Instead, she found herself drawn to Otto Hightower. He was a man of purpose, of ambition, of decisive action. With her mother’s soft words and frail smiles failing to shape her in any meaningful way, it was Otto who taught her the art of politics, of maneuvering through a court filled with predators. In him, she saw a mirror of her own aspirations—always looking forward, always plotting the next move. It was from him she learned that power is something you seize, not something you wait for. She knew he would never coddle her, never tell her she was beloved just for being herself; he only valued what was valuable, and that gave her a clarity she found comforting.

Her siblings, however, were a different matter entirely.

Aegon, her eldest brother, was a fool. Self-conscious, always craving their parents' love like a starving child reaching for a morsel of bread. For years, he had hoped to be the shining star in their father’s eyes, only to discover that no matter what he did, he would always be in the shadow of their half-sister, Rhaenyra—the daughter Viserys truly adored. That realization had driven Aegon to the brink. He had spiraled into self-destruction, numbing his pain with Arbor Red, drowning in the company of whores and sycophants who fed his illusions of being liked, respected even. She had watched him become a hollowed-out shell of a prince, playing at being a king among the rats and the vipers of the Red Keep. Aegon was a king now, a ruler in name, but he wore his crown like a noose.

Aemond, on the other hand, was a different creature. Where Aegon sought love, Aemond sought approval, validation—something to make the gods’ cruel joke of his birth order feel less like a curse. He set impossible standards for himself, always striving to outshine his elder brother, to rise above his station as the spare. He immersed himself in philosophy, warfare, Westerosi customs, determined to be the best in every field, the most learned, the most skilled. And yet, no matter how many strategies he mastered or how many books he consumed, he would always be the second son. Aemond may have won the favor of their grandsire, may have been admired by those who valued intellect and ruthlessness, but in the end, Aegon’s incompetence still carried the weight of the gods' favor. And that knowledge gnawed at Aemond like a wolf at a bone.

Helaena and Daeron, bless them, were different. Y/N could say nothing ill of those two. Helaena, with her strange, prophetic dreams and her love for insects, was perhaps the only light in their shadowed family. She lived in a world of her own, a world of strange riddles and hidden truths that no one else could see. Daeron, meanwhile, had been smart enough to remove himself from the poisonous atmosphere of the Red Keep, carving out a life for himself in Oldtown.

As for herself? Y/N had always considered herself a performer, a mirrorball reflecting the light of others, knowing exactly where to place her foot in every dance. She did not crave her parents’ approval or love; she never had. She knew her worth, not in how many times her father called her his precious daughter or how often her mother sighed with the weight of unspoken affection. No, her worth came from the power she had managed to accumulate on her own, the alliances she had forged, the influence she wielded like a blade. She had held her own court, commanded attention, respect, and fear. She had learned to survive, to thrive, to be more than just another pretty Targaryen face.

And now, she had none of it.

Here in this frozen wasteland, she was stripped bare of everything she had built. The North was a godforsaken, heretic country in her eyes—a land of rigid codes and old gods, where men did not bow easily, where words were weighed like precious stones, and secrets were buried beneath layers of ice and snow. She had no court, no power to wield, no influence to peddle.

And then, there was Cregan Stark.

A man whose reputation preceded him like a cold wind. Honorable, they said. A man of principle, a man who lived by his word, who believed in truth and duty as if they were his religion. There was no room for subterfuge in his life, no space for half-truths or hidden motives. His gaze was like steel, unbending and severe. It was almost appalling, really, how saintly he was. Mother above she thought more than once, he would be eaten alive in King’s Landing.

In the South, where smiles masked daggers and every word dripped with double meaning, a man like Cregan Stark would be a lamb led to slaughter. His sense of honor would be his undoing, his truthfulness a weapon turned against him. She had never met a man like him. A man who looked at her not with lust or ambition but with a quiet, steady gaze that seemed to see right through her. He seemed entirely unimpressed by her. It was infuriating and fascinating all at once.

Y/N squared her shoulders, determined not to let her irritation show. She would learn this place, learn its people, and most of all, she would learn Cregan Stark. She would find the crack in his armor, the flaw in his honor, the chink in his unyielding principles. Everyone had one; it was just a matter of knowing where to look, how to press, how to push. She was not here to be swallowed by the North—she was here to conquer it, one way or another.

She knew that the path to Lord Cregan Stark’s cold, cold heart was not a direct one. It was not a road paved with smiles or adorned with sweet words. It was a labyrinth, and the only way through it was by understanding his people.

She had watched him long enough to know this much: Cregan Stark was a man who put his people above all else. The North had a way of making even its leaders humble before it. They were not like the nobles of King’s Landing, always scheming for personal glory or clawing at each other’s throats for favor. Here, in this frozen hell, survival depended on something far simpler, far more primal—on loyalty, on unity, on trust.

So, she began to snake her way into the hearts of his people.

It started small, with gestures they would not expect from a southerner, least of all a Targaryen princess. She knew how they saw her—pampered, delicate, with hair too fair and hands too soft to have ever known true work. She could feel their eyes on her wherever she went, could hear the whispers as she passed by, wrapped in her fine furs, a dragon in the land of wolves.

The courtyard was busy that morning, the ground slick with melting snow and the air thick with the sounds of work—axes splitting wood, the clang of blacksmiths’ hammers against anvils, the shouts of men and women hauling barrels and crates. She approached the group of women gathered near the cookfires, a mixture of curiosity and skepticism in their gazes. Y/N took a deep breath, pulling her cloak tighter around her shoulders, and stepped into their midst.

“Is there something I can do?” she asked, her voice clear and carrying over the noise. A few heads turned, eyes narrowing in surprise. She saw a woman in her middle years, broad-shouldered and with arms like tree trunks, squinting at her as if she were a curious animal. The others paused, their hands stilling in their work, glances exchanged.

The woman, who she had come to learn was named Mildred, finally spoke, her tone rough as gravel. “Princess,” she drawled, dragging the word out like it was something distasteful in her mouth. “I don’t think there’s much here a royal lady can handle. Unless you’ve got a mind to ruin that fancy cloak of yours.”

Y/N smiled. “I’ve more cloaks, Mildred. And if it gets ruined, well, I suppose I’ll just have to make do with another one, won’t I?”

A snort came from somewhere in the back of the group, and Y/N’s eyes flicked to the source—a younger woman with a mess of red hair and a skeptical expression. Y/N kept her smile, but she let a hint of a challenge creep into her tone. “Besides, I’m not afraid of a little dirt.”

The women exchanged glances, weighing her words. Mildred shrugged at last, tossing a hunk of dough onto a wooden board. “Fine then. Let’s see how you fare kneading bread. Got to feed half the damned keep today, and we’re short on hands.”

Y/N stepped forward without hesitation, rolling up her sleeves. The cold bit at her exposed skin, but she ignored it. Her hands, unused to such labor, moved awkwardly at first, pressing into the dough with less confidence than she wanted. Mildred watched her, arms crossed. “Too gentle,” She grunted. “You’re not petting a dragon. Put your weight into it.”

Y/N did as instructed, leaning into the motion, feeling the resistance of the dough against her palms. It was a small thing, this task, but it was a start. She could feel their eyes on her, hear the whispers quieting, turning into something more like curiosity than derision.

Hours passed, and the smell of freshly baked bread filled the courtyard. The women began to loosen up around her, laughter breaking out now and then. She let herself laugh with them, leaning into their banter.

Days turned into weeks, and Y/N made it her mission to weave herself into the fabric of Winterfell. She found her way to the blacksmith's forge, where the air was thick with smoke and the clang of metal. She watched as the smiths worked, their faces streaked with soot, and asked questions—many, many questions.

“Why do you use that angle with the hammer?” she asked one of the younger smiths, a boy not much older than.

The boy, startled at first, blinked at her, then answered, “To shape the steel, Princess. To make it stronger, to give it an edge that lasts.”

She nodded, watching his hands. “Show me,” she demanded. The boy hesitated, glancing around nervously, but she stepped forward. “Don’t worry. I can hold a hammer.”

He did as she asked, and soon enough, she was holding the hammer herself, mimicking his movements. Her strokes were clumsy, awkward at first, but she learned fast, and with every thud of the hammer, she felt the eyes of the smiths soften just a little more.

In the great hall, she would sit with the lords and their wives, listening to their woes, their concerns, their petty grievances. Y/N had a mind sharpened by the best—her grandsire, Otto, had seen to that. She listened carefully, offering her thoughts, her solutions, often to the surprise of those around her.

“The river’s dammed up, and it’s ruining the fields,” one lord grumbled, a beefy man with a thick beard.

"Then undam it," she replied, her tone smooth. "Divert it, instead of letting it run its course. Build channels to guide it where you want it to go."

The man blinked at her, surprised. “Aye, well… that could work.”

“It will work,” she replied, a small smile playing at her lips.

She advised them on how to better store grain, how to rotate their crops, and how to reinforce their defenses with minimal resources. She made suggestions that saved money, improved efficiency, and most importantly, earned her a grudging respect. To her, these Northerners were like sheep, clueless and slow-witted. But she smiled, she helped, she solved their problems. She was always in the middle of things, her presence a constant in the great hall, the courtyard, the kitchens, the stables.

She even joined the hunts. The Northmen had mocked her at first for daring to ride out with them. “A princess in the snow?” they laughed. “She’ll freeze before we see a single stag.” But she proved them wrong. Her dragon’s blood kept her warm, kept her defiant in the face of the bitter cold, and she was the first to draw her bow, the first to bring down a deer.

“By the gods, she’s got a steady hand,” one of the older men muttered to Cregan as they dragged the deer back to Winterfell.

Cregan’s gaze had flicked over to her, his expression as unreadable as ever, but there had been a flicker of something there. Amusement? Respect? She couldn’t tell, but it was enough.

Bit by bit, she felt the change. The Northmen, these stubborn, superstitious heretics, began to soften, to open up to her. They began to speak to her not with suspicion but with interest, their words less guarded, their gazes less cold. They valued her now, saw her as something more than just a prim and proper southerner.

It was at a feast that she noticed it—how the lords and ladies began to speak of her in hushed, respectful tones, how they sought her out for advice, for a kind word, for counsel. She saw how Cregan watched from across the hall, his grey eyes narrowing, the faintest flicker of something akin to admiration crossing his face.

She caught his gaze, held it across the room. He didn’t look away. Instead, he raised his cup to her, a silent acknowledgment. A challenge, perhaps.

Y/N raised hers in return, a smile playing at her lips. The North had begun to bend, and soon enough, so would he.

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One afternoon, Y/N had just returned from Winter Town, cheeks flushed from the biting wind and the smell of pine and smoke still clinging to her cloak. The snow had begun to fall heavier now, thick flakes drifting down like soft feathers, blanketing the world in a quiet that felt almost sacred. She pushed back her hood as she stepped into the warmth of the great hall, her eyes scanning the room out of habit, looking for something—anything—that could further her cause.

She spotted a cluster of handmaidens seated by the hearth, their heads bent in concentration. They were mending and embroidering clothing, fingers working deftly with needle and thread. Y/N noticed the familiar shapes taking form on the fabric—the direwolves.

She glided toward them, her steps light, her expression warm and inviting. She had perfected this look over years at court—the doe-eyed charm that could disarm even the most hardened of men. “Oh,” she said with a bright smile, her voice a melodic lilt, “working on the Stark sigil, are we?”

The handmaidens looked up, a bit startled at her approach. They were used to her presence by now, but not so much to her sudden interest in their needlework. A girl named Caragh, her brown hair tied back in a braid, nodded. “Aye, milady. Lord Cregan’s cloak was torn on the last hunt, and his tunic needs a new embroidery. Wolves, of course.”

Y/N tilted her head, her eyes sparkling with interest. “How lovely,” she murmured, kneeling down beside them. “May I see?”

They hesitated for a moment but eventually passed her the cloth, the direwolf stitched in silver-grey thread standing fierce against the dark fabric. She studied it with a discerning eye, her fingers tracing the lines of the stitches. The work was good, but plain—functional, as was the way of the North.

A smile danced on her lips as an idea took shape. “Do you know,” she began, her voice soft and conspiratorial, “I’ve always been rather good with a needle myself. Perhaps I could try my hand at it? Just a little, of course. I wouldn’t want to overstep.”

The women exchanged glances, unsure, but intrigued. “Princess, you’d do that?” asked Caragh, her tone curious. “We’d be honored to see southern stitchings. They’re said to be… well, far more intricate than ours.”

Y/N chuckled softly, the sound like a chime in the quiet hall. “Oh, we do have a flair for the elaborate, it’s true,” she agreed. “But I promise, I won’t change it too much. Just add a bit of finesse.” She reached for the thread, selecting a shade of grey that was just a touch darker than the one they had been using. “Here,” she said, threading her needle with practiced ease, “let me show you.”

She set to work, her hands moving with ease. Her stitches were tiny and precise, the needle dancing in and out of the fabric as if it were silk and not the heavy wool of the North. The handmaidens watched her, their eyes wide with fascination as she added delicate touches to the direwolf—tiny knots that gave the illusion of fur, subtle shadows that made the beast look as if it might leap from the cloth at any moment.

“How do you make it look so… alive?” one of the younger handmaidens breathed, her cheeks flushed with awe.

Y/N smiled, enjoying their attention. “It’s all in the details,” she said with a little wink. “You have to see the wolf in your mind first, imagine the way its fur moves, the way its muscles shift beneath the skin. Then, you just… follow the thread.”

The hours passed, and the handmaidens were more than happy to let her work, their questions and chatter filling the space around them. They asked her about King’s Landing, about the fashions of the court, about the kinds of silks and velvets they had only heard of in stories. She answered them with good humor, spinning tales of the South that made their eyes shine with wonder. And all the while, her needle moved, faster and faster, until the direwolf on the fabric seemed to almost snarl, its eyes fierce and intelligent, its body coiled as if ready to pounce.

By the time Cregan Stark returned from a hunt, the hall was warm with the crackle of the fire and the murmur of soft voices. He strode in, snow still dusting his dark hair, his cloak heavy with ice. His boots left wet prints on the stone floor as he shook the cold from his shoulders and glanced around.

He stopped short when he saw her—Y/N, seated among his handmaidens, needle in hand, a small, satisfied smile on her lips as she worked on his clothing. His eyes narrowed, and he made his way over, curious despite himself.

“Princess,” he greeted her, his voice a low rumble, “I see you’ve taken to mending clothes now?”

Y/N looked up, her expression unruffled. “Lord Stark,” she replied, her tone light, teasing almost, “I thought I might be of some use. Your handmaidens were kind enough to let me practice a little of our southern needlework.” She held up the fabric for him to see, the direwolf now a striking, almost lifelike creature that seemed to leap from the fabric with a ferocity that had not been there before.

Cregan’s eyes widened, just slightly, his gaze moving over the stitching, his expression unreadable. “It’s… well done,” he said finally, and she could hear the surprise in his voice, grudging though it was.

She smiled, pleased. “You sound surprised, my lord. Did you think a Targaryen’s hands were only meant for taming dragons or holding goblets of wine?”

He let out a soft chuckle, the sound like gravel grinding together. “Not surprised,” he corrected, his gaze meeting hers, steady and unyielding. “Impressed. You’ve a fine hand.”

Y/N's smile widened. “Why, thank you, Lord Stark. I’m glad my work meets your approval.”

He nodded, his gaze still on the cloth, the direwolf that now seemed to pulse with life. “Aye, it does,” he admitted. “Though I wonder, Princess… are you looking to become a seamstress now?”

She laughed, a bright, ringing sound that filled the hall. “No, my lord. I’ve no desire to take up a needle permanently. But I do find it’s useful, from time to time, to show that a princess’s hands can be skilled in more ways than one.”

His eyes flicked up to hers, a challenge in them. “Is that so?” he asked quietly. “And tell me, Princess, what other skills do your hands possess?”

Y/N’s smile did not waver. “Oh, many things, Lord Stark,” she replied softly. “Many things indeed.”

He held her gaze for a moment longer, something unreadable flickering in the depths of his eyes, before he nodded again. “Well,” he said, “I’ll be sure to keep that in mind.”

And with that, he turned away, but not before she caught the slightest curve of a smile on his lips. She watched him go, feeling a thrill of satisfaction course through her veins.

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Her scheme had worked flawlessly. Piece by piece, the North was falling into place just as she’d planned. The people were warming to her, Cregan's gaze was lingering a little longer than before, and Y/N could feel the iciness of Winterfell slowly starting to melt in her favor. Everything was moving toward the outcome she desired.

Well until it wasn't.

The disruption arrived in the form of Alysanne Blackwood—Black Aly, they called her. Y/N watched her ride into Winterfell with a certain swagger, a confidence that bordered on arrogance. A member of House Blackwood, the aunt of young Lord Benjicot Blackwood, Alysanne had come north under some pretense Y/N didn't care to know about. At the time, it had seemed inconsequential. She had dismissed it, too caught up in her own plans to pay attention to this new player on the board.

A mistake. A rare, foolish mistake. Her grandsire would have scolded her for being so pliant, so hasty, so unguarded. Never underestimate a rival, he would have said. Never take your eyes off the board. And Y/N had done just that.

She should not have misconstrued this woman.

Alysanne was everything Y/N was not. Tall and lean, with thick black curls that tumbled past her waist, she had a wildness to her that seemed to embody the very spirit of the North. Her long legs and strong arms marked her as a woman who spent more time in the saddle than at a hearth, more time holding a bow than a needle. She wasn’t beautiful in the conventional sense—her features were sharp, her smile wide and often mocking—but there was something about her. Something raw and fearless, a fire that seemed to burn just beneath her skin. And that smell…woodsmoke. It clung to her like a second skin, as if she had been born in the midst of a bonfire.

Y/N had heard the whispers—how Black Aly was a legend in the North. An excellent hunter, a horse-breaker, an archer with a keen eye. She was bold and outspoken, with a tongue sharp enough to cut through steel and a wit that could match the sharpest of minds. The Northerners adored her. They loved her for her wildness, for her lack of pretense, for the way she embodied everything they valued: strength, courage, a disregard for the fripperies of southern court life.

She could see it in their faces as Alysanne moved among them, laughing and jesting with the men, sharing bread and soup with the women. Y/N could almost feel the tides shifting, the winds changing, as this woman—this picture-perfect embodiment of Northern virtues—threatened to ruin everything she had worked for.

Cregan Stark took to Alysanne immediately. Of course, he did. Why wouldn’t he? He took her hunting, riding out into the forest with her at dawn while Y/N was left behind to smile and make small talk with his bannermen. He brought her to his war councils, included her in his patrols, took her to meet the northern lords. Wherever he went, Black Aly was at his side, her sharp, barking laughter echoing off the walls of Winterfell.

Y/N could see it in the way he looked at Alysanne—a gleam of admiration, of respect, of something deeper, something raw. He valued her opinions, sought her counsel. And that stung more than Y/N cared to admit. Did it truly come down to this? Y/N Targaryen, a princess of the realm, having to compete with some backwater nobody?

She could feel her temper simmering beneath her skin like a slow-burning fire, the frustration building with each passing day. She thought of confronting Cregan directly, her hands curling into fists as she imagined the scene. She would demand to know why he spent so much time with that woman, why he found her so intriguing, so worthy of his attention. But no—she knew better than that. She couldn’t afford to appear desperate, to show him how much this rankled her. Instead, she kept her face a mask of calm, her smiles as practiced and serene as ever, even as she felt herself cracking.

One evening, as Cregan returned from yet another outing with Alysanne, Y/N was waiting for him in the hall, her posture regal, her eyes gleaming in the dim firelight. “Lord Stark,” she called out, her tone light but firm. “You’ve been busy.”

Cregan paused, glancing at her, his expression unreadable. “There is much to do, Princess,” he replied evenly. “The North doesn’t rest.”

She offered him a smile, one that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “So I see. And it seems you have found quite the companion to help you with your duties.”

Cregan’s brow furrowed slightly, but he didn’t rise to the bait. “Alysanne is a trusted friend,” he said. “She knows these lands as well as I do.”

Y/N felt a flicker of irritation but kept her voice smooth. “Of course. She is a fine… huntress. But surely, you don’t need her for every task, my lord. I’m certain there are others who could serve just as well. Perhaps even better.”

He regarded her for a long moment, his grey eyes searching her face. “Are you offering to join me on my next patrol, Princess?” he asked, his tone challenging, with the faintest hint of amusement.

Y/N’s smile didn’t falter, but inside, she felt a surge of frustration. “If you think my skills would be of use,” she replied, matching his tone. “I am, after all, more than just a… court ornament.”

He chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound that made her skin prickle. “I’ve never doubted that,” he said softly. “But the North is not a place for games or tricks. It demands strength and a willingness to face the unknown without fear.”

Her smile wavered, just a little. “I am not afraid of the unknown,” she replied, her voice edged with steel. “Nor am I afraid to prove myself.”

Cregan’s eyes softened, just for a moment. “I don’t doubt that,” he said, his voice lowering, more intimate. “But Alysanne… she knows this land, these people. She knows how to speak to them, how to move among them. That is not something you can learn in a few weeks.”

Y/N felt the sting of his words, but she masked it with another smile, her eyes flashing. “Perhaps,” she conceded, “but I have learned much in a short time. And I am still learning, Lord Stark. Every day.”

Cregan nodded, as if considering her words. “Then learn, Princess,” he said quietly. “But do not think you must compete with Alysanne. She is… unique, yes. But so are you.”

The words were meant to placate, to soothe, but they only made her feel more cornered.

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The doors to the great hall swung open with a loud creak, and a chill wind swept in, carrying with it the scent of snow and iron. Y/N turned, her eyes narrowing as she saw the commotion. Cregan Stark had returned, his presence commanding attention even as he limped slightly, his dark hair damp with sweat, his face streaked with mud and blood. His men flanked him, some of them leaning on one another, their expressions grim, their clothes stained with the same mixture of dirt and crimson.

Her heart lurched at the sight, but she quickly schooled her features into a mask of cool indifference. The skirmishes with the wildlings had been growing more frequent, their raids bolder, and it seemed today had been no different. The maesters were already scrambling, rushing forward with their apprentices and assistants, trying to assess the most grievous injuries, their faces set in strained concentration.

Y/N took in the scene with a practiced eye, her mind already calculating. There were too many injured, too much blood soaking into the stone floor of the hall. She could see that the maesters were stretched thin, their resources and patience fraying at the edges. Cregan, of course, was insisting on helping his men, despite the fact that he was clearly favoring his left leg, a nasty gash visible on his right thigh, and his arm hung a little too limply at his side.

Typical. The man was as stubborn as a mule.

She moved closer, catching sight of the way he clenched his jaw against the pain, his brow furrowed in a way that made him look older, wearier. He was trying to wave off a young apprentice who was attempting to guide him toward a bench.

“I’m fine,” he growled, his voice low and rough. “See to the others first.”

The apprentice looked helplessly at Cregan, clearly torn between obeying the Warden of the North and following the orders of the maesters. Y/N, sensing an opportunity, pushed through the crowd, her chin tilted upward, her eyes sharp.

“Really, Lord Stark?” she called out, her voice loud enough to carry over the clamor. “You look about as fine as a roast pig on a spit.”

Cregan’s head snapped around, his eyes narrowing at her. “Princess,” he said, his voice edged with irritation, “this is no place for jesting.”

She smiled, a sharp, knowing smile. “No, but it is a place for common sense. Something you seem to be sorely lacking at the moment.” She turned to the apprentice and gestured toward the other men. “Go. Help the others. I’ll take care of your lord.”

The apprentice hesitated for a moment, glancing between them, but then scurried off, clearly relieved to be free of Cregan’s stubbornness. Y/N stepped closer, folding her arms over her chest, her gaze fixed on the injured lord.

Cregan grunted, his expression darkening. “I don’t need your help, Princess. I’ve had worse than this.”

“Oh, I’m sure you have,” she replied. “But forgive me if I don’t trust your judgment on your own health, seeing as you’re bleeding all over the floor and insisting you’re perfectly fine. Very lordly of you, I’m sure, but also incredibly stupid.”

He scowled at her, a deep line forming between his brows. “I can take care of myself.”

“And yet,” she countered, stepping even closer, “you’re not doing a very good job of it, are you? Sit down, Cregan, before you fall down and make an even bigger fool of yourself.”

For a moment, he looked like he might argue further, but then he winced, a flash of pain crossing his face, and Y/N seized the moment. She reached out, gripping his uninjured arm with a strength that belied her slender frame, and guided him toward a nearby bench. “Sit,” she ordered, her voice firm, and to her surprise, he obeyed, albeit reluctantly.

He dropped onto the bench with a huff, glaring up at her. “I don’t need a nursemaid, least of all a princess from the South who’s never seen a real fight.”

She laughed, a sharp, sarcastic sound. “You’re right, I’ve never fought wildlings or raiders. But I have spent plenty of time in the Red Keep watching men bleed out because they were too stubborn to accept help. So, unless you want to be one of those men, shut up and let me work.”

His gaze flickered with something between annoyance and grudging respect. “Fine,” he muttered, “but make it quick. I have men to see to.”

“Quick?” She snorted. “You don’t give orders here, Stark. Not while you’re under my care.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Your care? And what makes you think you’re qualified?”

She didn’t answer with words. Instead, she grabbed a nearby cloth, soaked it in a basin of water, and began to clean the wound on his thigh with swift, precise movements. Cregan hissed through his teeth, his muscles tensing beneath her hands, but he didn’t pull away.

“I’ve shadowed Grand Maester Orwyle countless times,” she said as she worked, her voice steady. “I know what I’m doing. And more importantly, I’m not about to let you bleed out just because you’re too pigheaded to admit you need help.”

He grunted again but said nothing, his jaw clenched tight. She could see the pain in his eyes, the way his shoulders stiffened with each touch, but he stayed still, letting her do her work. She carefully cleaned the wound, her hands moving with a skill that surprised even herself, then reached for a needle and thread.

“This will hurt,” she warned, threading the needle with practiced ease.

“I’ve had worse,” he replied through gritted teeth.

“Of course you have,” she said, rolling her eyes. “And I’m sure you’ll tell me all about it after I’ve saved your life.”

His lips twitched, almost as if he were fighting a smile. “You’ve a sharp tongue, Princess.”

“And you’ve a thick skull, Lord Stark,” she shot back. “Now hold still.”

She began to stitch the wound, her needle moving with swift, precise strokes. Cregan watched her, his eyes dark and intense, but she didn’t falter. For once, she was not the southern courtier, the diplomatic princess with honeyed words and gentle smiles. She was herself, sharp and unyielding, meeting his stubbornness with her own.

When she finished, she tied off the thread with a quick, efficient knot and sat back, wiping her hands on the cloth. “There,” she said, satisfaction in her voice. “You’ll live to fight another day.”

He stared at her, a mix of surprise and grudging admiration in his eyes. “You did well,” he said finally, his voice softer than before.

She arched an eyebrow, a playful smirk dancing on her lips. “Was there ever any doubt?”

He chuckled, the sound rough but genuine. “Plenty,” he admitted.

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Winter is coming.

No, not the Stark words, spoken like a prayer or a warning. Winter is truly coming, and Y/N can feel it deep in her bones, creeping through the stone walls of Winterfell like a living thing.

The air has grown sharper, biting at her cheeks with every gust of wind, and the snow falls thicker now, each flake heavy and deliberate. The trees are bare, their branches skeletal against the grey sky, and the cold seems to press down on her, seeping into her skin with a relentless chill. It is a different kind of cold than she has ever known, a cold that seeps into her lungs and settles there, making each breath feel like an effort.

The North has always been harsh, but now it feels like it is preparing for something more—something darker, more unforgiving. Even the men and women of Winterfell, who have spent their entire lives in the shadow of winter, seem more guarded, more wary. There are murmurs in the great hall, anxious whispers in the corridors. Wildlings have been sighted more frequently, their numbers growing bolder and more desperate as the long night approaches. The skirmishes along the Wall have increased, and the night fires are lit earlier and burn longer.

Y/N pulls her cloak tighter around her shoulders as she crosses the courtyard, the snow crunching beneath her boots. She knows what is coming. She can feel it in the very marrow of her bones. Winter is coming, and with it, something more—a tension that hangs in the air like a drawn bowstring, taut and ready to snap.

That night, as she sits by the fire in her chambers, a raven arrives. The black bird flutters through the window, its wings dusted with snow, a rolled parchment tied to its leg. Y/N takes it with a frown, untying the message with cold fingers, her eyes narrowing as she recognizes the seal. Hightower.

She unfurls the parchment and reads the message, her eyes scanning the words with a growing sense of unease.

Return to King’s Landing at once.

The words are simple, direct, and she can almost hear Otto’s voice behind them, calm but commanding. He has received reports of the incoming long winter, of the increasing sightings of wildlings, and he deems it no longer safe for her to remain in the North. He urges her to leave before the roads become impassable, before the snows deepen and the wildlings grow more desperate.

Y/N exhales slowly, a plume of breath escaping her lips in the cold air of her chamber. She should feel relieved. Glad, even. No longer required to linger in this frozen wasteland, where the people are as hard as the ground they walk on, and her plans have slowly unraveled like thread from a worn tapestry. She should be glad to return to the South, to the warmth and intrigue of King’s Landing, where the games are played on her terms.

But instead, she feels a sharp sting of frustration. She berates herself for failing to secure the North for her family, for not weaving a strong enough web to catch the loyalty of these proud, stubborn people. A true Targaryen, she should have bent them to her will, but the North is as unyielding as its lord, and she has not succeeded in making it hers. It is a bitter pill to swallow.

“Failure,” she murmurs, her voice a low hiss in the dim light of her chamber. “And what would you say to that, Lord Hand? That your granddaughter, for all her cleverness, could not win the North?”

She lets out a soft, mirthless laugh, crumpling the parchment in her hand. “It’s a matter for another day,” she tells herself. She will return to King's Landing, regroup, plot anew. There are always other pieces to play, other moves to make.

Yet, her thoughts drift back to Cregan Stark. The brooding wolf of the North, with his grim expression and unyielding sense of honor. She won’t admit, even to herself, that she is fond of him. Or likes him. Or anything of the sort. No, certainly not. But… there is something about him that lingers in her mind like a half-remembered dream, something she can’t quite shake off.

After being surrounded by the snakes of King’s Landing, the liars and flatterers, the power-hungry and the depraved, she finds something strangely compelling in Cregan Stark’s righteousness. It comes to him as naturally as breathing, as naturally as wielding that massive Valyrian steel sword of his, the one he calls Ice.

She has seen him wield it with ease, watched him cleave through the air with a power that seems almost otherworldly. She has watched him ride out with his men, fearless and unyielding, his face set in determination. There is a strength in him that is not just physical, but something deeper, something that runs to his very core. A strength that does not waver, that does not bend, even under the weight of the North’s endless cold.

And she hates it. She hates how it seems to make everything about him… uncomplicated. How he carries his honor like a shield, how he speaks his truth without hesitation, without guile, as if the very concept of deception is foreign to him. It is infuriating. It is intriguing. And it has left a mark on her, whether she likes it or not.

Y/N folds the letter and tucks it into the folds of her gown, her fingers lingering on the soft fabric for a moment longer than necessary. She knows what she must do; her place is back in the South. But as she rises to her feet, her eyes drift around her room, taking in the rough-hewn walls, the cold stone floor, and the fur pelts draped across her bed. There is a part of her—small, quiet, but undeniably present—that resents leaving this place. Resents leaving him behind.

She sighs, pushing the thought away, and begins to gather what little she had brought with her. No handmaiden to help her, not that she would ask. She has always preferred to do things herself when it comes down to it. She moves about the room with a swift efficiency, her hands quick and sure as she folds her scarves, places them neatly in her travel bag.

She is in the midst of folding a deep green scarf, the color of pine needles, when a knock sounds at her door. She freezes, her fingers still gripping the fabric, and for a moment, she considers ignoring it. But then she rolls her eyes at her own hesitation and strides to the door, swinging it open.

Cregan Stark stands on the other side, looking as rugged and battered as ever. There is a bandage wrapped around his arm, another at his side, but he stands tall, his posture straight, his face unreadable. He looks better than he had when she had tended to him earlier, but not by much. His grey eyes flick to her, and she can’t quite read the expression in them.

“Lord Stark,” she greets, her voice carefully neutral. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

He inclines his head slightly. “I came to thank you,” he says, his voice low and gruff. “For earlier. For tending to my wounds.”

She raises an eyebrow, surprised. “Oh? Didn’t think you’d bother with gratitude.”

He snorts softly. “I’m not so stubborn as to ignore a kindness when it’s given.”

“A kindness?” She smirks, leaning against the doorframe. “I think you’ll find I had very little kindness in mind when I forced you to sit down.”

His lips twitch, just slightly. “Perhaps not,” he concedes. “But you did help. I owe you that much.”

Her gaze softens, just for a moment, but before she can reply, his eyes shift past her, taking in the half-packed bags and scattered belongings strewn across the room. His brows knit together in a frown.

“What is this?” he asks, his tone sharper than before.

Y/N shrugs, affecting a nonchalant air. “I’m going home,” she replies, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. “A happy bit of news for you, I’d wager.”

He is silent for a moment, his frown deepening, his eyes fixed on hers. “No,” he says finally, his voice low and steady. “I take no joy in this news.”

She blinks, momentarily caught off guard. “No? I thought you’d be delighted to see the back of me.”

His expression softens, and he steps further into the room, his gaze never leaving hers. “Believe it or not, Princess, I’ve grown accustomed to your… presence.”

Her eyes narrow. “What are you on about?” she demands, her voice sharper now, a hint of frustration creeping in. “Don’t tell me you’ve developed a fondness for me, Cregan Stark.”

He hesitates, then, with a sigh, says, “Perhaps. Or maybe I’ve simply developed a soft spot for your relentless stubbornness.”

She scoffs, folding her arms over her chest. “Oh, do spare me,” she says, her tone dripping with sarcasm. “The Wolf of the North with a soft spot for a Targaryen? Is that supposed to flatter me?”

He gives a half-smile, his eyes holding hers. “It’s not meant to flatter, just the truth.”

She rolls her eyes, exasperated. “Right. And I suppose this has nothing to do with your other northern… interests?” She tilts her head, her voice laced with mock sweetness. “Surely, Black Aly is more up your alley?”

His face hardens slightly, but there’s a flicker of amusement in his eyes. “Alysanne is a friend,” he replies, his voice calm. “A trusted one. But you—”

“But me?” she interrupts, stepping closer, her eyes blazing. “But what, Cregan? Do you think I’m going to stay here in this frozen wasteland to be your latest curiosity?”

He shakes his head, his voice rising just a fraction. “No, that’s not what I meant—”

“Then what did you mean?” she snaps. “Because I have no desire to dance around whatever it is you’re trying to say.”

He exhales, frustration lining his features, but there’s something softer there, too. “I meant,” he says slowly, deliberately, “that I have come to respect you, Y/N. To… care for you, in ways I did not expect.”

She laughs, sharp and incredulous. “Care for me? Truly? You’ve a strange way of showing it, taking Black Aly on all your little adventures while I’m stuck here playing house with your bannermen.”

Cregan’s eyes darken, his expression turning serious. “It wasn’t meant to slight you.”

“But it did,” she fires back, her voice lower, more intense. “It did. And now, you stand here, acting like you don’t want me to leave, when all you’ve done is—”

“I don’t want you to leave,” he cuts her off, his voice firm, his gaze unyielding. “Not now. Not like this.”

There is a beat of silence, the air between them taut and electric. Y/N feels something twist inside her, something she doesn’t want to name.

“Why?” she finally asks, her voice almost a whisper. “Why, Cregan?”

He takes a step closer, so close she can feel the warmth of his breath against her skin. “Because,” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper, “for all your southern games and sharp words… you’ve gotten under my skin, Y/N Targaryen.”

She meets his gaze, searching his face for any hint of a lie, any trace of deception, but finds none. She swallows, her throat tight. “And what do you suggest I do about that?” she asks, her tone still edged, but softer now.

He glances around the room at her half-packed bags, and then, with a determined expression, begins to pick up her things, placing them back where they were. “For a start,” he says, his voice gruff but not unkind, “you can stop packing.”

She watches, incredulous, as he calmly folds one of her scarves and places it back on the table. “What do you think you’re doing?” she demands, even as a smile tugs at the corners of her mouth.

He looks up at her, his eyes twinkling with a challenge. “Undoing a mistake,” he replies simply.

She shakes her head, half-laughing, half-exasperated. “You’re very difficult, you know that?”

He grins, the lines around his eyes crinkling. “So I’ve been told.”

They stand there, close enough to touch, the tension between them crackling like a fire waiting to ignite. For a moment, neither of them speaks. The air between them is thick, charged with something that neither of them can quite name. She lets out a sigh, breaking the silence that has settled over them.

“My grandsire has called for me,” she says finally, her voice softer than before. “It’s more of a command, really, than a request.”

Cregan’s brow furrows, his grey eyes narrowing slightly. “Is Otto Hightower the King of the Seven Kingdoms now?” he asks, his tone dry, laced with a hint of disdain.

Y/N chuckles, a low, throaty sound that sends a shiver through him. “He might as well be,” she replies, a faint smile playing on her lips. “He certainly acts like it.”

“Seems he’s got a hold on you too,” Cregan mutters, his gaze never leaving hers.

She shrugs, a half-smirk curving her lips. “I wouldn’t survive a winter here, would I? You said so yourself, Lord Stark. Even Vermithor and Silverwing refused to fly beyond the Wall of their own accord. Those ancient, powerful creatures wouldn’t dare. So whatever lies out there…” Her voice drops to a whisper. “It must be damning.”

Cregan’s expression is unreadable, his jaw tightening for a moment. “I can keep you safe,” he says quietly, but there’s a firmness to his voice, an unyielding resolve that makes her chest tighten.

Y/N raises an eyebrow, her lips curving into a teasing smile. “Oh, how kind of you, my big, bad wolf,” she drawls, her tone mocking but playful, her fingers reaching out to brush lightly against his arm. “But how about you start with something simple?”

His eyes narrow, a flicker of curiosity crossing his face. “Simple?” he repeats.

She steps closer, so close that her breath mingles with his, the warmth of her skin brushing against him. “How about, for starters, you try keeping me warm?” she murmurs, her voice barely more than a whisper, yet it carries between them like a challenge. “It is awfully freezing here… Can you do that for me, Lord Stark?”

For a moment, Cregan says nothing. His eyes search hers, as if trying to discern whether she’s serious, or just toying with him as she so often does. Y/N isn’t expecting much—she knows the Northerners, with their prudish notions of honor and virtue, probably see this as a surefire way to eternal damnation. She expects him to laugh it off, to turn away with a huff, to remind her, once again, that he is not some Southern lord to be trifled with.

But he doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t turn away. Instead, his gaze darkens, his eyes tracing the curve of her lips, the line of her throat. He takes a step closer, his body towering over hers, and she feels the heat radiating from him, the intensity in his stare. Her breath catches in her throat, her heart thundering in her chest as he reaches out, his hand cupping her chin, tilting her face up toward him.

“Is that what you want?” he murmurs, his voice a low, rumbling growl that sends a thrill down her spine. “For me to keep you warm?”

Y/N swallows, her mouth suddenly dry. She hadn’t expected this, hadn’t expected the Wolf of the North to respond to her challenge with anything but stern disapproval. “I—” she starts, but the words catch in her throat as his thumb brushes over her lower lip, his touch sending a jolt of electricity through her.

He leans in, his breath warm against her skin, and she feels the heat of his body pressing against hers, the rough fabric of his tunic brushing against the softness of her gown. “Say it,” he murmurs, his voice rough, almost desperate. “Say what you want, Y/N.”

Her heart pounds, and she feels a rush of something she can’t quite name—fear, desire, defiance—all mingling together in her chest. “I want…” she begins, her voice wavering, but then she catches herself, lifts her chin, her eyes flashing. “I want you to keep me warm, Cregan Stark.”

His lips curve into a slow, dangerous smile, and before she can draw another breath, his mouth is on her throat, hot and insistent. She gasps, her hands instinctively flying to his shoulders, gripping the fabric of his tunic as he kisses her skin, his mouth trailing down to the hollow of her collarbone, his teeth grazing against her pulse.

“Gods,” she breathes, a mixture of surprise and pleasure washing over her. She hadn’t expected this—not from him. But he is relentless, his mouth moving against her skin, his teeth nipping at the sensitive flesh, his tongue tracing patterns that make her shiver. He smells of the woods and leather, of smoke and something wilder, something purely him, and it makes her head spin.

She feels a hot rush of sensation flood her body, a fire igniting deep within her belly as he kisses and nibbles at her neck, her collarbones, his hands sliding up her back to pull her closer. “I didn’t think you had it in you,” she gasps, her fingers threading through his hair, tugging just a bit.

He chuckles against her skin, the sound vibrating through her, and she can feel his grin. “I am good at playing my part too, Princess,” he mutters, his voice rough, raw with hunger.

She arches against him, feeling the warmth of his breath, the roughness of his beard against her skin, and something inside her snaps. She doesn’t care about the cold, or the North, or even the damned wildlings anymore. She only cares about the way his mouth feels on her, the way his hands move against her, the way he’s suddenly, inexplicably, decided to abandon his precious restraint.

“Oh, so you’re not a prude after all?” she teases, her voice a breathless whisper, but there’s a tremor in it she can’t quite control.

He bites down gently on her shoulder, making her gasp, and she feels him smile against her skin. “Careful now,” he growls softly, his lips trailing up to her ear. “You might just find out how much I’m not.”

She laughs, a low, sultry sound that makes his grip tighten. “Well then, Lord Stark,” she murmurs, her voice daring. “Show me.”

And he does. All night long.

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The next morning, chaos erupted in Winterfell. The dawn broke over the snow-covered battlements, but there was no sign of the Lord of Winterfell. Cregan’s chamber was found empty, his bed undisturbed, and his bannermen immediately feared the worst. The cold winds carried whispers of possible attacks, of kidnappings, of wildlings breaching the walls in the dead of night.

“Where is he?” one of the lords muttered, his voice tight with worry. “I saw him head to his chamber last night. He should be there!”

“But he’s not,” another snapped, his face pale. “And there’s no sign of a struggle. Nothing.”

Maids and guards exchanged nervous glances, and the tension in the great hall thickened like smoke. Servants hurried through the corridors, peering into every nook and cranny, while a group of bannermen began to search the grounds, checking the stables, the armory, anywhere he might have gone.

The panic spread quickly, growing like wildfire. Hushed voices turned into frantic shouts, and soon enough, a full search was underway. Every room, every corridor, every shadowed corner was combed through with increasing urgency.

“Maybe he’s gone to the Godswood?” one bannerman suggested, and a group ran in that direction, boots crunching against the snow.

“What if he’s been taken?” another whispered fearfully. “The wildlings—”

“No, he’d never be taken without a fight!” a grizzled old warrior barked, his hand tightening on his sword hilt. “Keep looking!”

And so they did, their desperation growing as each minute passed without a trace of their lord.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, one of the servants hesitantly approached the door to Y/N’s chamber. He hesitated, his hand hovering over the handle as if unsure whether he should dare to disturb a Targaryen princess. But with his heart pounding and knowing that all of Winterfell was searching, he pushed the door open.

There, in the soft light of dawn that filtered through the small window, they found him.

Cregan Stark lay sprawled across the bed, still deep in sleep, his dark hair tousled, a faint smile playing on his lips. His arm was wrapped tightly around Y/N Targaryen, holding her close against him as if she were the most precious thing in the world. They were entangled in the furs, his body curved protectively around hers, their legs entwined, her head resting on his chest.

For a moment, the servant could only gape, eyes wide, mouth hanging open. Then, finding his voice, he croaked out, “Lord Stark!”

Cregan stirred, groaning softly, his eyes blinking open in the dim light. He looked down to see Y/N still nestled against him, her silver hair a soft halo on his chest. For a brief, confused moment, he forgot where he was, why there were voices at the door.

Then he heard the shocked gasp of the servant, and it all came rushing back.

“What’s the meaning of this?” a bannerman’s voice boomed from behind the servant, and within seconds, the doorway filled with faces, wide-eyed and bewildered.

Cregan rubbed his eyes, sitting up slowly, his hand still cradling Y/N. He glanced over at the doorway and saw the crowd of his bannermen and servants, their expressions ranging from horrified to amused to utterly scandalized.

“Well, it seems I’ve been found,” he muttered, a grin spreading across his face as he looked down at her, still half-asleep beside him. “So much for a quiet morning.”

Y/N stirred, blinking up at him, and then she saw the small crowd gathered in the doorway. Her cheeks flushed, but her lips curled into a mischievous smile. “Good morrow, gentlemen,” she purred, propping herself up on her elbow. “Is there something you’re looking for?”

The bannermen stood frozen for a moment, then the old warrior who’d been leading the search cleared his throat, his cheeks flushed red. “Lord Stark, we thought… well, we feared the worst.”

Cregan’s smile widened, his hand brushing a strand of silver hair from Y/N’s face. “No need for fear, Wylis,” he replied, his tone far too amused. “As you can see, I’m very much alive. Just… occupied.”

The servant who had found them couldn’t suppress a grin, though he quickly ducked his head to hide it. The bannermen, on the other hand, exchanged awkward glances, shifting their weight, unsure of what to say.

Y/N looked up at Cregan, her eyes glinting with amusement. “Seems you’ve caused quite the stir, my lord,” she murmured, teasingly. “Should I be worried that your men are so eager to find you?”

Cregan chuckled, pulling her closer, ignoring the gaping faces in the doorway. “Let them talk,” he murmured, his voice low and affectionate. “I have everything I want right here.”

And as the bannermen mumbled and fidgeted, trying to find a way to excuse themselves from the room without causing further embarrassment, Cregan leaned down to kiss her forehead, his smile never fading. “Let them see,” he whispered. “Let them know.”

Y/N laughed softly, rolling her eyes. “As you wish, wolf.”

And with that, he pulled her back into the warm cocoon of furs, ignoring the murmurs from the doorway, perfectly content to remain exactly where he was.

[thestarlightexpress]

Kinktober 2024: Day 2 - Somnophilia - Azriel x Reader

TW: sexual themes including overstimulation and dubcon

word count: 1.48k

NSFW under the cut

The sharp wind and misty rain pelted Azriel’s face as his long flight back from the Continent came to a close. He spent the last week surveilling Koschei’s lake for any useful intel and had unsurprisingly come home with nothing. After 8 straight hours of flying, all he wanted to do was collapse in his fluffy bed and sleep for a whole day. 

He neared the House of Wind, feeling the drowsiness and pull to his bed grow even stronger as he struggled to keep his eyes open. Finally landing, his tense and taut muscles were able to gradually start relaxing. As he slowly wandered down the hallway towards his room, his ears perked up at the sounds floating towards him from a few doors down. Muffled moans and something that suspiciously sounded like a headboard striking the wall. Cassian and Nesta must be at it again.

He slowly opened his door and was dismayed to find an obstacle in between him and his comfy bed - you, laying on your back, starfished right in the middle of his bed. You were dead asleep despite gripping an open book in your hand. Knowing he was set to come back tonight, you had done your best to wait up for him but evidently couldn’t resist the coziness of his bed. 

A soft smile ghosted his lips as his shadows softly shut the door behind him. He pried the book from your hands, setting it on the nightstand before softly kissing your forehead and heading to the restroom. He quickly shed his sweat-soaked leathers before running a quick bath. His sore muscles sang in relief at the warm water. As he lay in the bath, the light and sweet smell of your arousal drifted through the open door. 

His shadows slinked back into the restroom, whispering to him the name of your book. It was one he and Nesta had been reading a few weeks earlier in their secret smutty book club. Knowing exactly what his sweet little mate had been reading had his blood swiftly rushing to his cock. He had intended to just quickly wash off and curl around you as best he could and go to sleep, but he suddenly found himself changing those plans. 

Azriel hurried to dry himself off and slip on his sleep clothes before wandering back into his bedroom. The forceful waves of your arousal nearly knocked him over. You were still in a deep sleep with a blissful smile on your face. The skimpy camisole you were wearing didn’t leave much to the imagination, showing off your perky nipples. Azriel’s gaze raked over your chest and down to your high-waisted shorts that barely covered your ass. He inched closer and closer to you, feeling his now hard cock straining against his sweatpants.

He crawled between your legs, soaking up the smell of your need as you continued dreaming. Azriel slowly gripped your shorts and pulled them down your legs. He was almost on the verge of drooling at the sight of your slick, pink pussy bared in front of him. He trailed up your legs, leaving warm open-mouthed kisses in his wake. Azriel placed a soft peck on the tip of your clit before licking a slow strip up from your entrance. His rough hands reached up to pull your thighs further apart, spreading your cunt for him.

Azriel softly suckled on your clit, sending a new wave of slick sliding down towards your entrance. He shifted down and dove into your pussy, licking up your syrupy arousal. A gentle moan slipped from your mouth as your hips shifted up and chased his mouth. He moved back up and his lips wrapped around your clit while he slipped two fingers inside you. He felt your body shifting above him as he pumped his fingers inside you, stretching you out for him. A small hand landed on his head and laced through his damp hair. 

“Well, this is certainly a way to wake me up.”, your rough, sleep-ridden voice drifted down towards him. Azriel glanced back up at you from between your legs, finding you propped up on your elbows. His free hand grasped your wrist and moved your hand to rest on your stomach. Azriel sent some shadows to weave through your hair and rest around your neck and shoulders. “Go back to sleep, my love. Just let me make you feel good.” He gripped your thigh and dove back into your inviting cunt. Releasing a needy moan, you laid back on the bed and swiftly drifted back to sleep.

Your slick continued to drip between your legs, soaking Azriel’s face and the sheets below you. Even while asleep, his skilled mouth quickly brought you to your first orgasm of the night. Your back arched and your breaths quickened into soft pants as you came in his mouth. The intoxicating taste of your release had his hips bucking up, grinding his swollen cock into the edge of the bed, desperate for a sliver of relief. 

Azriel groaned into your heat as he felt his precum drip down his cock. His fingers inched further inside of you, pressing against the spot that always made you see stars and beg for more. He glanced up at you and grazed his teeth against your sensitive clit when he heard your breath hitch. He promptly brought you to your second and third orgasm until your legs were shaking around his head. Your hand drifted back down to his hair and softly pulled him up from your cunt. Drifting in and out of consciousness, you managed to string together a mumbled plea. “Too much, Az.”, your soft voice lowly murmured.

He rose up and trailed his hands over your body, taking off your camisole in the process. Azriel hovered over you and rested his head on your bare chest. “Sorry, love. Didn’t mean to get carried away,” You sleepily hummed and cradled his head in your hand. His head drifted up and he nosed into the crook of your neck. “But I think you can cum one more time for me, yeah?” You roughly bit your lip and rapidly nodded against him. You whined at the anticipation of feeling him again. The Mother had certainly given you the horniest male in existence for a mate. His scarred hands gripped your hips in the way he knew you loved as he gently flipped you onto your stomach. Azriel crawled off the bed and stood at the foot of the bed. He outright moaned as he loosened the laces of his pants before pulling them off to release his leaky cock from its confines. He couldn’t hide his smile at the sight of your head resting on top of your arms, already asleep again.

Azriel loved many things about his sleepy girl, particularly how cuddly and pliant you get. But this, this was something you had always talked about doing that Azriel hadn’t been lucky enough to experience. You both loved the idea of him taking you as you slept, letting him use you solely for his pleasure. His cock bobbed in the air as he stared at your supple ass, debating about how he wanted to take you. He crawled on top of you and sat on your thighs a few inches behind your ass. He gripped your cheeks before using one hand to guide the tip of his member through your soaked folds. Azriel angled your hips up towards him before sliding into you and sheathing his cock fully inside of your warm, welcoming heat.

You both groaned at the stretch, Azriel much louder than you. He didn’t even need to give you time to adjust as your body was relaxed enough by your previous slumber. He grasped your waist and pulled his hips back to thrust into you. He had been so pent up over the past week that it didn’t take him much to get close. Getting lost in his own pleasure, he roughly took your tight cunt. Your light moans could barely be heard over his hips slapping into your ass.

Azriel felt his abs straining as he started to approach his release. He shifted his legs further up the bed and caged your torso under his chest. His thrusts started to get harder and erratic as he felt you tighten around them.

Azriel bit down a moan as his hips stilled and he spilled into you, your walls spasming around him as you came for the fourth time. After taking a few minutes to catch his breath, he slowly clambered off the bed and slipped his pants back on before laying down next to you. He gingerly turned you onto your side and pulled you into his chest. Not even five minutes later, he found his chin resting on your shoulder and felt himself pulled into sleep by your comforting warmth.

Kinktober Taglist:

@honethatty12 @sweet-chai-amore @helo1281917 @scarsandallaz @thatacotargirl @a-courtof-azriel @lmadness @riorgail

[sayruq]

[CONT] carrying out field executions against civilians in Gaza after forcibly removing them from displacement centers and stripping them.

The video below. Tw: forced undressing, detention camp

The EuroMed article

[bitchesmoonwalkin]

okay attempt two at posting this

ways of making a whumpee scared of non-con without outright nc or threats

carewhumper vibes. the obvious tws apply

manhandling. throw them onto the bed and straddle their hips, keeping their hands pinned on either side of their head. alternatively, bend them over a table or a bed, keeping them there with a hand tangled in their hair or on the back of their neck.

alternatively, keeping them pressed against your chest or guiding them with fingers tangled in their hair or digging into their hip, just slightly under their waistband

classic shows of submission. tie them up and have them kneel - especially if it's between your whumpers spread legs. give their hair a pet every once in a while if they're good.

pet names: baby, pet, pretty boy, pup, princess. etc.

strip them. personally i prefer keeping my whumpees in their underwear and maybe a carewhumpers tshirt, but even so the act of stripping them is a great place for some physical and psychological whump - ESPECIALLY when the whumpee has only just been kidnapped/captured and does not yet know what to expect

have them undress in front of you for the first time before making them bend over the bed. watch their hands shake and their eyes fill with tears, feel them tense underneath you, frozen with fear. and then you simply just handcuff them or even just walk out of the room, leaving them to question when the n/c will start - only it won't. their fear is all you wanted, after all

gruff/significantly larger or older caretaker bathing a younger whumpee who doesn't feel safe around them yet - whumpee flinching away but too weak to fight as they are gently stripped and placed in the bath, being cleaned /everywhere/ in a way that makes them flush with shame even if there's no intention behind the touches

whumpee being gently but firmly forced into a humiliating position, maybe forced to stand still for an /inspection/ filled with clinical yet invasive touches

using objects w sexual connotations (ball gags, blindfolds, certain whips and types of restraints) in non-sexual situations

this works especially well for a newer whumpee - strip them, blindfold and ball gag them before thing them to a mattress, legs spread. then let them wake up on their own, slowly, watch the fear kick in as they come to their own conclusions about what's going to happen to them

some more explicit stuff below the cut

those dildo gags or maybe an anal plug or vibe - just, you know. keep it in

shoving fingers into whumpees mouth until tears come to their eyes

be handsy with them

taking photos of them in intimate or humiliating posistions

whumper jerking off onto whumpees face where they're tied up and kneeling

buying whumpee lingerie - if they wear it, they might get some food or even first aid

[acapelladitty]

bereft of grace

Summary: Defeated by Messmer, you find that his plans for you, a mongrel tarnished, are far different than what you might expect.

(tw: non-con, humiliation, forced stripping, restraints, mild tit torment, rough sex, size difference, stretching, vaginal fingering, creampie, overstimulation, pain)

Fic Masterlist

Link to AO3

You feel the infernal chill of his helm pressing against the side of your face as he lowers his head to your own. His words, soft-spoken and laced with cruelty, brush across your ears as your naked back remains pinned to his chest - restrained by both the strength of his arm pulling tightly across your stomach and the unshakeable wrap of the snakes which lace across your wrists to keep your hands useless and pinned against your sides.

"Mongrel tarnished." He growls the words like a slur, silken hatred pairing with the predatory knowledge that you were truly helpless in his arms. "Thy kind are good for naught."

A serpentine tongue slips free of his lips to stroke a languid line across your neck, tasting the sweat of your battle and the fear that had long since laced your skin since he had deprived you of your torn clothing; the shredded materials laying in a discarded pile below your suspended frame. His tongue is warm, wet and the sensation of it brushing along the sensitive skin of your throat is as arousing as it is repulsive.

"Stripped of gold."

Thin fingers force their way between your legs, widening your thighs as they push at and grope the skin there so roughly that you know small, circular bruises will be left in their wake. His hand slides further, your breath hitching with despair as he presses against your most private flesh; lengthy digits stroking along your slit to test the skin there as they tease your slightly-wet hole before slipping up to graze across the ultra-sensitive nub of your clit.

"Stripped of grace."

Gasping as he pushes two of his fingers within you with little preamble, the sudden stretch of the intrusion burns like hellfire and you cry out as he starts to pump them inside your walls. Your body responds despite itself, his long digits stroking areas which were quick to ignite a warmth in your cunt that made your brain feel fuzzy despite the hollowing discomfort.

"Stripped even of thy paltry linens."

The heat is oppressive, the flames which he was able to conjure in an instant making his body feel like a furnace where it touches your own - even through his armour - and it pairs with the shameful warmth which rolls from your own body as you find yourself pressing down into his hand like a bitch in heat.

As soon as he had robbed you of your weapon, you assumed death was to swiftly follow and a genuine fear of being impaled like so many of the corpses which littered the road to the Shadow Keep immediately made you compliant to his commands. You had dropped to the floor and awaited a swift death which was not to come as his hand had stayed, something almost like amusement playing in his drawn face as he noted the instant submission and ordered you to approach him.

He had ripped your clothing from you, tearing it with a demigods strength as you shivered and ignored the hot shame which paired with the fear in your heart. His snakes followed their masters will without verbal instruction, the infernal heat of them as they slid across your skin making you gasp as forked tongues tasted their way across your shuddering frame to lock your hands in place.

After that, it didn't take long for Messmer to make his move. His gaze, split between hues of gold and the abyssal void, had taken its time in your appraisal - peering into your anguish and fear-laced expression before roving across your ample breasts and lower half. A rail-thin hand had struck like one of his many serpents, harshly gripping at your upper arm to spin you in place and allowing him to scoop you close as inhumane strength lifted you from the floor as though you weighed nothing.

Nothing in the face of a demigod.

Thoughts snapping back into the moment as a third finger breaches your hole, a pained howl slips free of your lips as you writhe in place - attempting to pull away from the pleasurable pain with a futile struggle. Sex and bodily pleasure wasn't unknown to you, but the sheer power which rolled from the demigod who seemed determined to amuse himself with your flesh made it difficult to focus on anything outside of the humid air and the sensations he was forcing upon you.

"Thy kind are fit for use as a fleshly pleasure. No more. Strip all thoughts of lordship from thy desires before my hand is pushed to strip thy skin from such soft flesh."

Fresh snakes slither across your chest, the thin bodies wrapping around the globes of your breasts and tightenening to the point of true discomfort - the rope-like restraints making a wicked pressure quickly build up in your abused chest. Sinking their fangs into the sensitive skin just below your chest, the snakes showed no sign of letting up their firm hold and you almost sob with relief as Messmer's thick fingers pull free of your cunt.

It's a short-lived peace though, as his slickened fingers are quick to establish how tight the hold his snakes have achieved and a guttural cry breaks free of your throat as his large hands move to pinch at your chest roughly. Nipples perked due to the pressure and arousal which is rolling through your stimulated frame, he's careful to snatch the sensitive nubs between his fingers, one at time, until fresh tears spring into your eyes and your back arches violently into his chest while your lips form a constant stream of pleas and whines.

"For one so cursed and devoid of all, thy voice is surprisingly sweet." And although you cannot see his face, you can hear the predatory arousal which accompanies the words.

He was enjoying himself, attempting to force you to do the same.

"You are the cursed one."

Finding your voice, you yelp out the words like an accusation - arousal, shame, and mild horror sparking a momentary boldness which you immediately regret as his body stiffens and a sharp chill replaces the cruel warmth of his earlier tones.

"True, little tarnished. My curse is borne in the void of the abyssal serpent. Naught more than a monster, I will force thee to embrace thy oblivion and know such suffering."

Something blunted presses against your hole and your panicked struggle renews as you feel just how big he is, the girth making genuine fear lance your spine as you realise that his earlier rough treatment with his fingers was a necessity more than anything else. Aside from the stretch which his fingers provided, you were horrified to feel just how wet you were as his cock grazed along your slit; collecting your arousal to ensure an easier entry as he forced himself inside such a tight-fit space.

The noise that slips free of your throat is inhumane, guttural and raw, as the head of his cock breaches past your hole. It feels like it's going to split you apart and the sheer burning ache of the merciless stretch instantly overpowers any other feeling in your body - your toes curling as a wracked sob shakes your trembling frame.

"Please! Please, st-stop." The words are a babble, stuttered and broken, as you try to force yourself to relax around him, to adjust to his infernal size. "My lord, please."

The unexpected use of his title earns a rumble of approval and his lips are hot against your neck once more as his sharpened teeth graze across the sensitive flesh while he considers the plea with a low hum.

"Thy slickened folds tell of a differing desire, little tarnished." Messmer growls, keeping his cock still as he allows himself to acclimatise to his gripping tightness of your spasming cunt. "But I am not a rutting beast, devoid of all mercies. Ask it of me and I shall see to thy own pleasures."

Fresh shame flushed through your frame, adding another layer of heat to the already sweat-slicked skin as you listen to his offer. He would force you to ask this of him. To make you accomplice to your own unmaking. A cruel mercy, but a mercy which you would take him on as the alternative seemed impossible to bear.

"I beg you, my- my lord. Please, use me."

His chuckle is victorious and wicked in its joy as Messmer pulls you lower on to his cock, forcing another two inches of him within your aching hole. However, true to his word, his free arm, the one not pinning you to his chest, slips down between your legs and you gasp as his finger circles itself at the top of your cunt, seeking out your most sensitive flesh.

He knows he has found it when you jerk in his arms, an electric bolt of pleasure arcing across your skin as his calloused finger grazes your swollen clit. It sparks him to pick up a slow pace, his cock breaching your hole until it presses flush against your cervix before pulling free until only the head remains. A slow pace, but a brutal one as every thrust makes it feel like he is pulling your walls free with him - the friction immediately sending your body into overdrive.

His finger never lets up the pressure on your clit; alternating between grazing along it directly and gently thumbing circles around it as the dual manipulations forced your legs wider, your body seeking more pleasure to offset the ache of the stretch. Pain and pleasure, both sensations at war within your tortured flesh until his thumb presses just a little too roughly against your nub and you came undone.

Clenching around his cock, your release brings with it a low scream as waves of pleasure roll across your body. Messmer seems to appreciate the forced pleasure, if the growing pace of his cock is anything to go by, but the continued stimulation of his thrusts only serves to make your orgasm draw out until your body twitches from the aftershocks.

"So easily pleasured. Were it not for thy warriors garb and weaponry, I would have assumed thee a courtesan. A temptress, well-versed in the pleasures of men."

Messmer grunts the insult as he continues to fuck you without mercy but his humiliating words barely register within your overstimulated mind as your whimpers fill the large room. His voice is full of excitement and you can hear the slight gasps which exist between the words and how they speak of his own coming release.

His cock having ruined your most sensitive walls, the dull ache of the stretch now only serves to enhance the pleasure and you cannot help but clench around him, pulling him to his finish as his cock twitches within you.

The arm around your stomach tightens, as do the snakes which remain bound across your suffering frame and you feel the heat of his release as it scorches you from the inside out, much hotter than any man you had been with before. Seeking his own pleasure, Messmer pulls you tight, forcing his cock up hard against your battered cervix as his mouth buries itself into your neck - teeth and tongue making a mess of your skin as he marks the territory like a beast.

It all proves too much and you come again, your cunt fluttering and squeezing his cock as low, animalistic noises break free of your lips. Your strength leaves you in an instant after the initial high and the loose limbs of your frame are only supported by his arm and snakes as he keeps you suspended like a puppet until he's finished with you.

His cock pulls out, the movement slow and certain, and the moment his cockhead slips free you feel the heat of his release trickle down your thighs as a gaping emptiness seems to fill the space between your legs. Despite the heat, you feel cold and you whimper anew as his snakes unlatch themselves from your chest and retreat back to their master.

Messmer's breathing is heavy and his chest feels as hot as ever against your naked back, even his armour having lost its metallic chill, as he continues to hold you in place. Aching, twitching, and thoroughly fucked you lay passively in his arm, your entire body feeling loose and untrustworthy.

After a minute has passed, Messmer speaks once more and his hoarse words are delivered to your ear as he lifts you slightly higher.

"My vague amusement with thee requires further consideration." As silken as before, you shudder at the close proximity as you rub your mess-slickened thighs together. "And so my offer is thus: remain in the Shadow Keep as a personal courtesan to myself, a role in which no other man nor beast shall lay hand on thee, or choose to return to ash and I shall grant thee a swift death until thy body is restored by the grace of gold which thee are unworthy of."

Your breath hitches, both options relaying in your mind as you recover from the shock of the unexpected offer. Messmer, however, did not appear to be a patient man and his arm jostled you slightly as he instsntly pushed for a response.

"Well, little tarnished, what is thy choice?"

[hoshigray]

𝐁𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝𝐲 & 𝐌𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐲 | ryōmen sukuna

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬: true form! Sukuna x afab/fem! reader - explicit content; minors DNI - heian era! au-ish - itty bitty degradation - biting/nibbling - tw: cannibalism + blood kink - clitoral play - choking - scratching - lotus + missionary positions - unprotected sex (psa: wrap it up, or get tf up) - pet names (little bird/one, plaything, pet) - possessive behavior - shit gets kinda . . . intense - mentions of blood (like, LOTS of it), drool/spit, and tears.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 1.8k

“Hah…ahh….”

It felt cold… everything was dark…and pain ignited all around your body…

“Keheh, wake the hell up, little one. Who said you could sleep?”

And the person responsible for your suffering gets a kick out of it.

Anything and everything is beneath the King of Curses, a piece of information that isn’t just a fact to the cursed behemoth but a law — no one and nothing is exempt from this rule. Anyone is free to prove him wrong, but know that most, if not all, have met their end trying to dismantle themselves from this philosophy. Arrogant fools are what he’d call them: maggots that deserved to be squashed, trash that deserved to be incinerated…and food meant to appease his appetite.

To Sukuna, humans are worth nothing more than inconsequential pieces of walking meat and bones wrapped together. A human himself, however, the cursed man is far too superior even to believe that he was once intimidated to fit within their flimsy expectations. Their labels and ways of living mean nothing to him; they are beliefs that only further the idicracy of the human mind, which never fail to astound him. Yet, the more delusional they are, the more tastier.

And the same goes for you, his fragile, feeble, and delicious little flower.

There have been many humans the man has consumed in his life, the tender muscles of corpses being his favorite treat to shred with his teeth, and the coppery taste of the thick blood that quenches his thirst. There’s no doubt in his mind: human flesh is ever so delectable. And judging from tonight, it’s even more so when he has you under his submission.

You were nude like always, stripped of your robes to expose your body for him, pristine from any dirt or force that wasn’t his. Like many nights before, you sat on him with Sukuna’s lower arms holding you by the thighs as your legs sprawled around his massive figure. Both his cocks out to marvel at, one of them stuffed inside and stretching the opening of your hole, your mouth stuck permanently agape because of the girth you could never prepare for. 

There was a chill in the autumn night, contrasting to the warmth inside Sukuna’s chambers, both from the candles basking a glow into the room and the exchange within the union of your bodies. Sweat travels down to your body and ass and connects with the skin of his thighs as he ruts into you. Your frame rocks with every motion, prompting squeakier sound out of your system, and constant shudders rattle your spine with every brush of his unattended cock on your tummy.

“Ahhh, nmmmfuck, ‘Kunaaa,” you call out to him, wrapping your arms around his neck as you burry into the crook. “My Lord, ohmy—Nmmm! Feels…so good…”

“Yes, little bird?” His deep voice relaxes you. “What feels good? Hmm?” You receive a sharp thrust to your inner channel, causing you to bounce on his thighs with a sharp cry. “Answer me?”

“—Mmnph, ohGod, you feel so good!” You whine from his tip brushing your sweet spots with ease, and the outer cock grinding on your clit has you gasping for air. “Y-You make me feel so gooood…”

The cursed being chuckles darkly to you ear that you nearly melt. “How pathetic, all it takes is my cock to have you crying like a whore.” Another rut marks a hit to your cervix. You scream aloud, and he grins broader. “Must be like that to any man who can treat you with themselves.”

“Neverrr,” you slur out, drool on the verge of escaping after receiving another poke to your womb, a deadly attack when you already have to endure the onslaught of swipes on your clitoris. “No one can ever please me like you—Oooh—you do! No one can ever replace you, my Lord—“

“Who said anything about replacing me?” His upper right hand comes to your throat to choke; the sudden restriction of breath has you twitching on his cock like crazy. “I’ll be damned if you even have the gal to think of having some other insolent brat take my place.” The mere thought of another’s hands roaming around your body — what was his by all rights — fueled a subtle anger, the hold on your airways getting tighter.

You look to him with lustful eyes, void of fear and filled with love instead. Just pitiful, you amuse him. “Of course not, my Lord, I –I would never be foolish enough to do that.” your daze was getting worse, and you couldn’t stop clasping onto his girth. “I belong to no one…Hahhhh, no one else but Ryomen Sukuna, my Lord…my King.” 

Good. Sukuna scoffs and brings you to him, and you shiver as his tongue runs up your trapezius. “Don’t you ever forget that, pet — you are mine, my plaything forever and always, till you bore me or I rid you of this Earth myself.” And then he sinks his teeth into the skin, tears now falling with the ignited wince of pain. “Understand?”

“Yesss!” You moan, “I belong to you and…no one else.”

His tongue then licks around your inflicted wound, a bit of your blood escaping the dents he indicted lather onto his wet muscle. Your taste sparks on his tastebuds, and he hums as he licks it.

Then, all of a sudden…he wishes to taste more.

He inflicts another bite, piercing his teeth deeper than before, and you wail with another spasm of tightness around his dick. Fuck, oh, now he’s enjoying this even more. “More, more.” Another bite is placed on your neck, and your eyebrows knit together as your hands ball into fists. “I said give. Me. More!”

Before you could even register, Sukuna’s teeth grind roughly on your neck and tear off the skin, your flesh stuck into his mouth and blood spraying and dripping down. At first, you don’t realize it until your eyes flicker, and you sense the source of a brief shutdown. Then comes the bundles of nerves activating to indicate something is wrong, and a giant wave of aches permeates around your neck. You see a deep scarlet coat on your neck, your chest, and his lips. And you shriek.

“S-SUKUNA!?!” A million thoughts travel at the speed of light. “Wh-What’s going on?! Why are you—AUGHH!” He pins you down to the futon, and the clean white sheets now begin to harbor shades of red. He switches the cock inside you with the outer; the one sheathed with your slick grinds on the crevice of your ass.  

“Quiet, pet.” He commands with his upper hands, caging yours, drinking more of your blood pouring from your neck. “I’m famished.” He chews on more of your muscle, gulping and slurping and chewing and gnawing at any bit of you his teeth can latch onto. Your screams grow mute to him, his focus on your inner taste.

And that’s not the only thing you’re wailing and trying to squirm out of; Sukuna’s mouth of his stomach has a mind of its own, the tongue licking on your stomach before nibbling on the flesh. Your feeble attempts to try and kick are worthless, the man keeping a firm grip on your ankles. It isn’t long before he tears the skin off your abdomen as well, more hues of carmine drenching the futon.

Shouts go louder and louder as every new wave of pain hits you one after the other, tears striking down your cheeks as you sob aloud and beg for your master to reconsider. But it’s too late; the man is already drunk on your gummy muscles and thick blood. You tasted sweet, juicy, and tender. The smell of copper and its metallic taste furthers his drive for more, getting way too turned on by this.

Your throat is running dry from the constant eruptions of screams you release, broken cries bouncing off the shoji frames and panels, yet no one is around or awake to rescue you at this hour. And even if they were, no one would dare come into the domain of the King of Curses. No one would be dumb enough to try and stop the behemoth from hammering his cock into your figure as he eats you alive.

And the worst part about it…is how oddly good you still feel from it!

Sukuna doesn’t stop pistoning himself into you, even with both mouths full of your flesh torn off of your limbs. His length feverishly hits your womb to the point of your head pounding, and spontaneous grazes to your G-spot leave you rolling your eyes in the air. His sharp nails pierce into your thighs, and more trails of blood paint around your body as he scratches deep into your skin. Is it normal for your cunt to be spasming like crazy as the tongue of his stomach digs inside you to slurp on your intestines? No, it cannot be, it’s wrong to think so…so why the fuck do you feel so fucking good?!

“—Ghaahh, fuck,” he swears with hot breath, his mouth so damp with your blood that his tanned skin harbors a literal mess. Everything is a mess — you, him, this futon, this room, this entire night. And that does nothing to shatter Sukuna’s ego. “Fuck, fuck, fuckfuckfuck—Nnmmgh!! Shit, I’m gonna cum…! Gonna fucking….Ffffahhahh!!”Hips go fucking wild, bucking into your aching, sore chasm like nothing, chasing for his release that he can feel creeping in. The more your vaginal walls wring him out, the more he throws his pelvis at you; the sounds of skin slapping against each other increase in volume. 

Finally, with a loud groan, Sukuna goes still and allows himself to burst his essence into you, the pool of his orgasm consuming him into a state of euphoria that has him elated more than ever. He’s huffing so hard above you, sweat now running cold as the clarity pecks him while the shocks entertain him before they subside.

However, everything still feels hot, you still feel warm on his cock, and your blood masks him from the cool air. Sukuna lifts his face to look at what he’s done, and no ounce of pride can be hidden from how big his grin is.

You lay there, legs twitching uncontrollably and skin drenched with nothing but red. Any attempts to speak are impossible, your throat so dry and your voice low and destroyed from exerting so much force earlier. And your eyes, typically shining with life and happiness that pairs with your smile, now display nothing — pure lifeless, dwindling out like the candle flames as your color fades with the anguish you’ve been bestowed with your flickering vitality. Pieces of your flesh, torn muscle, and a pool of blood are left as your final resting place.

He could heal you and stop the bleeding, save you from the face of death before you bleed out. But it wouldn’t be like him if he didn’t admire the view of his work after ravishing his meal. His crimson gaze gleams with a dark amusement as he chuckles.

“My tasty little bird.”

© 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐲2024 – reblogs and comments are appreciated wholeheartedly ⊹ transparent edit made by me + dividers from @animatedglittergraphics-n-more.

[befuddled-calico-whump]

One Warning

for Angstpril, Day 27: Til Death Do Us Part (alt)

cw: alcohol/intoxication, stress position, noncon strip, noncon touch, manipulative whumper, fear/anticipation of and referenced noncon

previous ///// masterlist ///// next

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Alexei's head was still spinning when he reached Titanium HQ. Not a new occurrence. Grabbing a drink or two after a mission had been normal before the Tower; nowadays it was practically a ritual.

Or in this case, a drink or six. Or seven. Maybe eight. He'd lost count. Lex would pay with a headache the next morning, and normally it would be worth it for the dreamless sleep and numbed thoughts, but tonight Spyglass had ruined his shaky grasp on tranquility.

Pestered him with talk of being good, of fighting back against Uriah, until he was ranting about his year in prison. The last thing he wanted to talk about, the last thing he wanted anyone to fucking hear about, but in the moment, he couldn't stop himself.

Lex tried to forget it on the way home, and it had all but trickled out of his thoughts as he trudged through the hall to his room.

Ball, call, doll, fall, he thought sleepily. As soon as he hit the bed, he'd be out like a light, and tomorrow the memory would be all the fuzzier.

But he could see light coming from under his bedroom door. And before he even reached out to push it open, he knew Uriah would be waiting for him on the other side.

"You ran into Spyglass." It wasn't a question. Uriah was reclining on Lex's bed, a narrow, stiff thing that looked sleek and futuristic but wasn't the least bit comfortable. His room was peppered with similar furnishings; the modern, fashionable stuff rich people liked to use in decorating. No carpet on the shiny wooden floor. No windows.

Lex stayed in the doorway, giving a sharp nod of acknowledgement. He really, really didn't want to do this right now. But what choice did he have?

"You didn't call me," Uriah continued.

"You never said that was part of my job. M' I supposed to notify you every time I see someone jaywalking too?" He made an effort to enunciate, to stand up straight, but the wry look that crossed Uriah's face told him it wasn't enough.

"Drunk again, Alexei?"

He didn't bother denying it. "Got a problem with that? I finished your fucking mission."

The other man shook his head, pushing himself up off the mattress. "Liquor always seems to sharpen your tongue. I'm not sure I like that," he said as he crossed the room. By now Lex knew not to try to shrink back when Uriah reached up to take a fistful of his jacket, pulling him closer until their faces were almost touching.

"Why didn't you tell me about Spyglass?"

"Y'figured it out on your own just fine. What, you need me to hold your fucking h—"

Uriah slapped him. Nothing hard, it barely stung, but it wasn't meant to hurt. It was just another way for Fox to remind him who was in charge here.

Glaring silently at the other man, Lex toyed with the idea of killing him. Right here, right now. He could do it. Might even be able to set the building on fire before they shocked him and beat the shit out of him and dragged him back to the Tower…

He inhaled a little too sharply at that thought, and he could've sworn Uriah flinched at the sound.

Ah. He knows it too.

"You said the rogue team was off the table," Lex said, dropping his voice to a low growl in an effort to seize onto the other man's momentary fear.

But Uriah was already back to his smarmy, composed self. "Hm, perhaps I wasn't clear enough. I won't send you after them, but I still expect you to report any sightings. They are a slippery bunch."

Lex clenched his jaw as Uriah reached for him again, this time smoothing the front of his jacket. "Noted."

"Excellent. Now why don't you take this off? You look uncomfortable."

He knew it wasn't a suggestion. Metal fingers fumbled for the zipper, and he dropped the jacket, making a point to ball it up and throw it into the corner as hard as he could. He left his tank top on, and Uriah didn't say anything about that. Not yet.

"Before I let you sleep, I have one more thing I'd like to discuss. Come have a seat."

As he followed Fox to the bed, a dozen worst-case scenarios flashed through his head, a growing sense of unease momentarily sobering him up, but making the twisting in his stomach that much worse. He sat at the foot of the bed, as far from the other man as possible.

"What were you and Spyglass discussing?" Uriah asked. "I was only able to pick up one half of the conversation."

Lex tried to recall what he'd said, if there was any way he could twist the topic into something that wouldn't give up any of the woman's plans to Uriah, assuming he didn't already know them. He shrugged.

"I was a few drinks in. Kinda fuzzy."

"I see. Then I suppose I'll have to remind you. It sounded like she was asking for your help."

(Kelp, whelp, yelp.) Lex swallowed. "Maybe."

"Well fortunately for you, you turned her down spectacularly," Uriah said. "If the conversation ended there, I'd be in here to reward you for your loyalty."

The mention of loyalty was enough to spike Lex's nausea, but worse than that was what came before. The 'if'.

"But you warned her when you left, Alexei," Uriah continued. "You told her I was listening. You told her to run. And while I can forgive the mistake of not reporting her in the first place, I can't overlook a deliberate sabotage."

He wouldn't go. He'd go down fighting, he'd take Uriah with him, he'd burn Titanium down and let it collapse over him. He wouldn't go back. He couldn't go back.

Lex could barely hear the last few words over the blood rushing in his ears. His mouth had gone dry. It wasn't enough, was it? One warning wasn't enough for Uriah to send him back, was it?

He flinched as Uriah laid a hand on his shoulder, barely able to restrain himself from grabbing the appendage and crushing it.

"You're trembling, Alexei. Are you so afraid of discipline?"

(Flayed, braid, delayed). He didn't dare to look up. "Don't send me back," he whispered. "I-it won't happen again. I'll follow orders."

Uriah chuckled. "Send you back? No. You're still of use to me, and besides, I like you."

The stomach-turning slickness of his tone was nothing compared to the wave of relief that washed over Lex. It took a lot to not slump forward and hold his head in his hands.

"But this kind of incident can't go unpunished," Uriah continued. "Stand up."

Lex did. The sudden wave of fear had sharpened his wits, but his body was still sluggish and swaying, and his head spun as he got to his feet.

"Strip," Uriah said, and he fought through his discomfort as he obeyed, pulling his tank top over his head, fumbling with buttons and zippers until his pants fell, and stepping out of his boots. Better to not dwell on it. To not think at all. Not give Uriah a reason to do anything else.

"I said, strip."

A moment's hesitation, and then Lex was removing his boxers as well, tossing them with the rest of his clothes, then just standing there. Too aware of Uriah's eyes on him, too proud to try and cover himself, no matter how much his skin was crawling.

"Come here." Uriah patted the mattress beside him. This time, the hesitation lasted longer, and when Lex finally began to take small steps towards the bed, he had to resist the urge to squeeze his eyes shut.

There was a small jingling noise as Uriah thrust a hand into his pocket, retrieving a heavy pair of handcuffs. He gestured with his head. "Up to the headboard. Hands behind your back."

Lex bit down on the inside of his cheek, seeking anything to distract himself. It's fine, it's fine, it's not the Tower, it could be worse, it was worse there—

Uriah locked one cuff on. Lex couldn't feel it, but he could hear the clash of metal on metal.

"If you fight me, I'll make this worse," Uriah said, and Lex almost laughed. How many times had he heard that one?

The other man stood on the bed, pulling Lex's arms back and upwards, until his own weight was a strain on his shoulders.

He heard the click of the other cuff locking, but it was a distant sound. He was too focused on the wrinkles on the bedsheets, scattered across the mattress like cracks on cloth.

But the unwanted touch he was bracing himself for never came. Uriah's weight left the bed, and for a moment he just stood beside it, looking Lex over.

"I hope this gives you plenty of time to think about where your loyalties lie," he said, patting Lex's bare thigh. It seemed more condescending than anything else; an odd thing to feel relieved over.

Now that the threat had passed, Lex was becoming aware of the building tension in his shoulders. The only way to ease it completely would be to stand up on the mattress, and even then he'd be forced to duck his head to avoid hitting the ceiling.

"I hope you never forget again," Uriah said as he stepped out, pulling the door after him. "You're mine, Alexei. Goodnight."

It was only a few minutes before his residual arms started to go numb. This punishment would be hell for the night, and he'd probably need to see the company healer for his shoulders in the morning, but he'd take it over others.

Over so many others.

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