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golddaggers · 4 years ago

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little things

pairings: wanda maximoff x f!reader

warnings: none, really. just a lot of fluff

a/n: sO. @howardpotts dared us on our little discord to randomize marvel characters with halloween costumes and i got wanda and elvis and marilyn. i came up with this and i hope you like it!

word count: 800+, just a quickie to celebrate halloween!

ever since i got together with wanda, it felt as if i’d opened a new door to myself. she helped me discover new things about myself nearly all the time, i found myself liking exotic food and putting on pantyhose for fancy dinners. but this time… well, she certainly outdid herself, because, if anyone would tell me that i’d be wearing matching outfits, or just wearing a costume of any kind, i would straight up tell them they were insane. i was definitely not a halloween person.

but alas, here i was, clad in marilyn’s famous white dress. i tried arguing that it would look a lot better on her than it was on me, but she brushed it off by saying my boobs were way nicer and fuller, it’d be a shame to steal from the world such sight. wanda could be very cheesy when she wanted - i wouldn’t have her any other way. from the moment i met her, i just knew i would end up falling in love with her.

well... maybe i’m sugarcoating the story a bit. i didn’t know back then that i liked girls that way. nevertheless, the more we worked together, the more i looked at her differently. paid attention to tiny details: how she likes her coffee or the way she sleeps, all sprung out across the mattress. during one of our many missions together, i learnt wanda speaks when she sleeps - the first time i realised she liked me, it was about midnight, her soft breathing soothing as i read a book under the dim light of a lamp. the words seemed disjointed, that is until i heard my name, something along the lines of ‘stupid’ and finally ‘i like you. so much’.

days after we began dating, i found out about the dream it inspired me to pursue her. it is easy when you know you won’t be rejected. turns out, wanda dreamt we had a fight, about how careless i’d been, i laughed, even in her dreams i’m stubborn. then i asked why did she care so much, it led to her confession.

even now, i couldn’t believe i had such an amazing person by my side. not only as the love of my life, but my best friend, my family, my everything. no single thought clouded my mind when it came to my feelings towards her.

i sigh. watching as she finishes curling her hair, trying to style in a way she saw online. my girlfriend had a tight, white jumpsuit on, hugging her curves as if it’d been painted on her body. i have to refrain myself from going over and undoing all her meticulous work - if i’d have it my way, i would rip her clothes off and make love to her right there. smear her lips with my own blood red lipstick.

“stop watching, bug,” wanda puts down the curling wand, seemingly satisfied with her results, “you know it makes me embarrassed when you watch me for too long.”

“you just look very nice, sweetheart,” her shiny smile makes my heart skip a beat, “if elvis looked just a teeny tiny bit like you, he’d be the most handsome man in the world.”

“silly.”

“are you sure i look okay? i feel a bit exposed,” i pawed my own breasts, the dress’ wide rift showing too much of my own skin.

“nonsense. you look-” there’s a sudden quiet moment as she stands up, on her heels, she looks like a goddess, “-amazing. feels like that dress was made for you.”

i get up on my feet as well, still barefooted. a sweet smell lingers in the air after wanda sprays some on her neck, i don’t hesitate to go over to where she is, wrapping my arms around her, swooping the girl in my arms. nothing feels quite like home than the warmth of her embrace. i could be anywhere in the world, as long as i had her, i would be home.

soft lips press gently to my forehead, a gentle whisper of ‘i love you’ fills my ears. i could burst from my emotions. never loved someone so much. never been loved by someone so much. if happy endings were real, she was mine.

“we are so going to win this year!” the woman says, still refusing to let me go just yet, “i’ll rub our award right onto tony and pepper’s faces.”

“and you’re not at all competitive, right?”

her laugh makes me smile, absent-minded. a careless state of bliss. i steal a kiss, not minding that it’d ruin the perfect makeup she spent hours to make, despite my thoughts, she doesn’t push me off, so i kiss her even further, tangling my fingers into her curls, losing myself into the moment. i start to get handsy, that’s when she pulls me back, visibly out of breath.

a frustrated groan slips from me.

“promise when we get back, i’ll make it up to you.”

“pinky promise?”

it’s wanda’s turn to steal a kiss, “pinky promise.”

#wanda maximoff #wanda maximoff x female!reader #wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff x you #wanda maximoff x ofc #wanda x reader #wanda x ofc #wanda x y/n #wanda maximoff fluff #wanda fluff #fluff #golddaggers

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golddaggers · 2 years ago

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this. oh wow. oh my GOD! so beautifully written, i dropped my water bottle.

you'll be waiting in vain

Pairing: Daemon Targaryen x Stark!F!Reader Wordcount: 3.2K Warnings: smut. jealousy. daemon being daemon. Semi-Outdoor handjobs. Summary: “Go back to Dragonstone, husband,” you order coldly. “You’ve spilled your seed.” A/N: Someone requested a reader being daemon's reluctant bride like his first marriage. sexual tension. hatred. insinuations that daemon can't get it up. Title from eyes on fire by blue foundation

The first time is a shock to both of you. He had come to linger at Winterfell though he had hardly visited since your wedding. The marriage had been a failure from the start. The ceremony silkily resplendent, and the bed empty. The following day, Daemon had sent you home.

Now, he only visits because of his King. Caraxes loathes the cold, and so does the hot-blooded Daemon. One does not go without the other.

Daemon, by his own arrogant creed, despises everything you are.

The long-faced Starks. The North even though their lineages are just as old as Targaryens. Valyria. Brandon the Builder. The First Men. Dragons. Direwolves.

He comes without notice, the high-pitch whistle of Caraxes is the first battle call to announce his arrival. You smooth your gowns and fiddle with your hair before you glide out of the castle to greet him. Caraxes lands brutally, claws sinking into mud and shattering a few wheelbarrows of chickens. They shriek before going silent, and you grimace, knowing that it won’t reflect well on you.

As if you had invited him here. As if you did anything with your prince. The bright red dragon’s lean, enormous body shudders in the wind. His gleaming eyes register your presence, and you’d swear there is curiosity circling the pupil, a glimmer of recognition before he twists his head to look at his rider.

Daemon, in leathers and his ridiculous helmet, slides from his mount. His black velvet clothing is threaded in scarlet. The Dragon. The Rogue Prince. He is handsome and terrible with his violet irises and silver hair. The Northerners despise him, utterly bereft that their Stark Lady has married Targaryen filth. He removes his gloves as he saunters toward you before he stills. He cocks his head, eyes trailing from your toes to your brow.

“Why are you here, husband?”

“Have you grown taller?” He steps closers, looming over you with a sharp, observant glare. “You look different.”

You cross your arms over your chest and square your shoulders. “Why are you here?”

“Prettier,” he mutters. “Tell me, is there some great Northern oaf fucking you? Making you bloom like this?”

Horrified, you draw back as if he’s slapped you. The question is outrageous, and instinctively you lift your hand before he snatches your wrist.

“A jest,” he drawls, mouth quirking. “As for my arrival here? My brother wants me to fulfill my husbandly duties and seed you, wife.”

You can’t control your expression. Starks are not well trained in courtly etiquette, and your shock screams across your face. Daemon fully grins; it is the first time you’ve ever seen it.

He taps your chin to force your mouth closed before he brushes past you. “Don’t worry, sweetling,” he says over his shoulder. “We can keep up the farce. Just order my rooms ready, and I will ask nothing else of you.”

Bastard.

You wrap your arms around your waist, suddenly freezing. You watch Caraxes rise slowly before flying away, blotting out the white sun to hunt, sleep, or whatever dragons do.

His wings shake the ground.

***

Daemon does not ask for much. He keeps to himself, reading books and studying the lands outside Winterfell. One morning, you dare to climb the battlements to catch a glimpse of him.

It’s dawn. The air is cold and biting. The sky is purple, flushed with pink and red. It reminds you of the heart tree and Caraxes’s scales. Daemon, tall and imposing, is leaning against the wall. His silver-blonde hair is braided away from his face, rest of it falling in a mess of curls and tangles like the weather has whipped it up. The rising sun gilds his profile and, for a moment, you are struck dumb at his beauty.

You are so used to his dry sarcasm and guarded countenance that you don’t expect this: his distant, vulnerable gaze adrift on the horizon before him. He seems lost in a memory.

“Planning where to build your castle?” you ask, splitting the silence.

He drops his head, smiling and you should have known he sensed your presence the second you’d stepped into his space. “The Northmen would have my head, darling one.”

You bristle at the sweet name, but allow it as you have allowed all of his transgressions. “When will you leave?”

He glances at you over his shoulder. “When I have sated my pleasure.”

You scowl. “There is no one here for that.”

His eyes brighten and he stands before strolling toward you. “No one?” He cocks his head. “My dear, there is a lovely little house just beyond the gates. I’ve made quite a impression I think.”

You’re stunned. You did not realize that he’d been entertaining himself at the brothel where your own bannermen have no doubt seen him. Your cheeks burn hot at the humiliation. The entire reason Daemon has flown to Winterfell is to fuck you and he’s made it glaringly obvious that you haven’t sufficed. You’ve had enough of his pompous attitude, his princely sentiment. He thinks he owns the North simply because he’s married you.

You lift your chin, narrowing your gaze. His brow furrows as if he recognizes the imperceptible change in your demeanor. You’ve only been the winsome, docile wife. The subserviant lady.

You will show him. You will show your bitterness.

“Daemon.” you purr as you grip him by the shoulders and drag him backwards into the entrance of the watchtower. It’s cold here. The stones are wet and the torches unlit.

“Aroused, are we?” he taunts as he allows you to guide him. “Did jealousy do the trick? The thought of me fucking some whore with my-”

You abruptly grasp him over his trousers and he chokes on his tongue. Quickly, you undo the laces and slip your hand past the band. You feel him - hard, long, and pulsing. You squeeze his length, slide your thumb over the head as he begins to grind into your touch. With your other hand, you tangle it into his long hair. Your nails dig into his skull and he buries his face into your throat, his lips are warm on your skin as he groans. He croaks your name and oh the power of it…to feel him trembling in the cradle of your palm.

You fist his cock with a roughness to match his ugly exterior. You twist and rotate your wrist as you keep an even pace. You lower your gaze to watch, mesmerized every time the fat blushed head peeks between your curled fingers as you stroke down.

“Like this, my prince?” He is pinning you to the wall with all of his weight, his thigh locked between your legs as his hands fly to your waist. He smells like Winterfell and burning coals. He makes a broken sort of noise from the middle of his chest. You thought he’d be louder, but he appears to even control the volume of his pleasure. Guarded. Severe. Daemon.

You notice the vein in his throat rolling with his heartbeat and the wolf in you desires a taste. You lunge and sink your teeth into it. Daemon rumbles, jerking violently against you as he spills into your hand.

The seed is warm in the cold and you imagine that if you raised your hand to the air, it would steam like a hot pool. You say nothing as Daemon tries to calm his ragged gasps.

When he speaks, his voice is hoarse, unlatched from its usual wicked reserve. “You’re a plague,” he accuses.

You laugh as you pivot out of his embrace. You’re slippery and empty, hunger pawing between your legs as you meet Daemon’s hellbent, almost-furious, gaze.

“Who knew the cold, frigid Starks could be so welcoming,” he remarks dryly as he tried to elegantly step away, tucking himself back into his trousers. He’s shaken, vulnerable because you’ve unhanded him. You take the moment to deal a kill shot.

You lift your fingers, sticky with his seed, and taste it, lick it like you’re savoring lemon icing. His eyes widen a touch and you count it as a win against him.

Shocking Daemon Targaryen is your latest game. You are not the frigid wolf girl he believes you to be. He has put you into a box and you have decided to burn it down.

“Go back to Dragonstone, husband,” you order coldly. “You’ve spilled your seed.”

***

Daemon is gone for a month before he returns. It is a new record for him. He has always left for whole seasons, sometimes a year.

You hear Caraxes’s shriek. It wakes you, makes your heart stutter. Inexplicably, something molten trails down your belly before settling in your core. You think of Daemon out there, waiting for your arrival and being refused. You think of his spend on your tongue. The salty nip of it. Your nipples pebble and your back arches and you dip your hand between your legs and sink two fingers into your cunt.

You think of Daemon’s red, throbbing cock. You add a third finger. You stretch yourself, rub your clit and whimper into the blankets. You can hear him in the hall, boots echoing like fallen statues. He’s shouting something to the servants. He’s terribly angry. You quicken your pace, your pleasure builds into a howl before you fall over the edge.

He throws open the door. His face is covered in grime and he stinks of a battle.

Who have you been fighting, dearest? Who have you been trying to conquer?

You coyly sit up, attempting to look shocked. He’s standing there, staring and there is a tangible tension between you that rings like a bell. You slip from your bed and glide over to him. His eyes catalogue every piece of your body to note what new change you have to present. The bare skin, the white, fluttering sleeping gown. You touch his cheek with the hand you stuck in your cunt not a few minutes before.

For a second, you think he knows…he can smell you. He flushes, the pink dazzling his pale milk-skin.

He steps away from your hand and shifts on his feet as his violet gaze wanders everywhere, but your face.

“Would you like to touch him?” Daemon asks hesitantly. He’s in a linen shirt and coal black trousers. His dirty boots.

You frown. “Who?”

“Caraxes.”

It is absurd. Daemon has arrived with no warning. He has stormed into your room without any sense of courtesy before nervously asking if you’d like to pet his dragon.

“Oh,” you smile with real emotion. “Oh, yes please!”

***

“He likes you.”

Daemon’s features are twisted into incredulity. He watches as your fingers stroke Caraxes’s long snout.

Your stranger-husband had been uncharacteristically protective, putting himself in front of you before taking your hand and placing it on Caraxes’s hide. When Daemon was distracted, you’d gradually creeped toward the enormous jaws intending to peer the red dragon in the eye.

Daemon had nearly had a fit, rushing toward you before stopping dead in his tracks. Caraxes was purring, rumbling under your ministrations.

“I do not-”

“The Starks have a way with incredible creatures, Daemon,” you explain, amused at his horror. “We have magic in our blood just as Targaryens do.”

“I’ve never heard of a dragon submitting to a Stark,” he argues, sounding slightly disturbed.

“He doesn’t submit to me. He’s tolerating me,” you clarify. “A Direwolf would be another story.”

Daemon huffs before moving behind you. His broad chest touches your back, his chin grazes the side of your temple. He hovers over you before his hand clasps the top of yours and you both caress Caraxes’s snout. He lowers his head so that his warm breath tickles your ear. “Would you like to fly?”

***

You didn’t care for the flying. The air was too cold and you didn’t have the proper attire. Daemon had to wrap his larger body around yours in order to keep you warm.

Despite yourself, you had enjoyed that part. You enjoyed the way he spoke to you about how to fly Caraxes: what he tells him, how they move with eachother. He’d pressed against your back with all of his lean, tough muscle. He said something to you in old Valyrian that you could not parse, but figured it was either crude or an insult.

When you land, your guards lose their minds.

You are freezing, my lady.

You could have fallen!

You cannot ride a dragon.

Your husband has endangered you.

Daemon, with all of his syrupy contempt, rolls his eyes.

“Of course, I brought my lady wife up to the sky to catch her death,” he drawls. “You’ve caught me.”

“Daemon,” you warn before pinching the back of his arm. He abruptly stops so that you stumble into him. He smoothly reaches back, his calloused hand catching your hips to steady you. His bones are firm and he’s still blazing hot from riding Caraxes. Before you can stop yourself, you lean forward, mouth against his cheek.

“It’s not a bad plan, my prince. Winterfell could be yours.”

He turns, nostrils flaring as he levels you with a steely look. “Not until I’ve had the Lady Stark.” His voice so full of suggestion, it nearly hurts. “Not until then.”

***

For all the Targaryen flair, Daemon is a warrior at his base. He does not mind the mud, blood, and shit that a soldier’s life offers. The longer he stays, the more he seems to relate to the Northerners.

Your people are unyielding and unbreachable. They speak to him with respect, but are difficult to woo. Daemon tries his best before finally utilizing his wit at the expense of the old North houses to entertain himself. He is gleeful as he converses in double-entendres that go over Lord Mormont’s head.

“Everyone is so rigid,” he bites as he sprawls out in a chair by the fire. He’s drunk on Northern ale and you are already in your bed. No one will say a word that you’re sharing a room. Sometimes you forget that you’re married.

“They’re a cold sort,” you agree.

“Winter is coming,” he slurs with disdain as he drops his face into his hand and stares unseeing at the fire. He watches the flames crackle for a long time before he finally speaks. “Yet you are full of heat. Fire. Blood.” He looks to your bed. “I did not see you on our wedding night..I did not see you at all. You were entirely forgettable.”

You flinch, hurt by the reminder that he had abandoned you that night to roam, drink and fuck. He’d never consumnated the marriage and you had sobbed in your gown because you did not understand the rejection.

“Go to your lovely little brothel then,” you growl and his head snaps to attention.

“You do not hear me,” he protests as he stands.

“Leave,” you snap with all of your loathing and bitterness. He has slapped a nerve, hit you where you are raw and weeping. He had ignored you for years, forced you to rot in Winterfell. You were married, but remained untouched. It spills out of you - so much ice. “Go stick your cock in another, prince,” you sneer as you dig your nails into your thigh to keep from crying. “If you can even get it hard enough for the deed.”

His teeth audibly clench, a tiny muscle in his jaw flexes. “As you wish then,” he declares in a cold, severe tone before he storms out of your room.

You burst into tears, stricken with grief at your own actions. Your brother has gone to war. Your parents dead. You are alone aside from your guards and the Septa who raised you. You only have Daemon, the delicious promise of the rogue prince to ease the repetitive, unending boredom. He scares you. He leaves you soaked and feverish. He makes you want to devour everything, fight him tooth and nail until he nails you down and conquers you like Aegon himself.

You do not want to be the forgettable girl in the box. The girl not allowed to ride dragons.

***

He enters your room in his clothes from the night before. You regard him cautiously, embarrassed at your outburst. Your blatant jealousy.

“Daemon...” you begin haltingly.

He wordlessly stalks forward, both hands grasp the hinges of your jaw before he kisses you fiercely. It is bruising. He forces your back against the window, pins you with his thigh as his tongue plunges past your lips to stroke inside your mouth in the reflection of a fuck. You push at his shoulders, shove at him before pulling him back to you.

“Lift your skirts,” he demands in a soft voice between kisses. “I will prove you wrong.”

“I won’t touch if you have laid with others.” Proud, despite the way you’re arching into him, rub yourself against the velvet of his tunic.

He draws back to hold your gaze. “I did not,” he swears. “I drank in the crypt until morning.” He ducks his head, expression almost sheepish.

You laugh, unable to stop yourself. The thought of your arrogant dragon prince sullenly drinking beneath the ground. He rolls his eyes and presses his mouth to yours again. “I want you, wife.” His lips slide down your jaw to your throat as he speaks to you, seduces you. “I have thought of nothing else but that Northern cunt since you licked my seed from your fingers.”

His voice is rich and low, grazing your skin and your bones and the deepest part of your womb. You fist a hand into his hair to wrench him closer. You want to ride the dragon.

***

He handles you well, observing your gestures and reactions. What do you like? What will you like once he teaches you to like it? He teases your sex with his fingers, stroking and petting as he nurses his thumb against the bud at the peak of it. “That’s it,” he croons. “Relax into it, lady love.”

He takes your knees in hand and forces them back against your breasts. He spreads you as he guides his cock into your slick heat. It is difficult, but he works his way inside as you bloom around him. He does it slow, controlled. He teases the head, pushing it past your entrance, smearing it against your folds, before drawing back. He drives in an inch, then two before removing himself completely. You cry, digging your nails into his tapered waist, the flesh of his ass. When he finally buries himself, it is a shock. He groans into your mouth, marveling at the tightness, the near pain of trying to fit himself. It is the only time he is loud…the only time he cannot smother it. You take it as a victory before you become a mess.

As he braces his weight above you, he fucks you slow. Each burning drag of his cock forces a sob from your mouth that he steals away with his lips.

‘Hush, darling,” he murmurs. “Wouldn’t want to terrify your guardsmen.”

“Don’t stop,” you beg. “Please.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he grins as he grasps your ass to lift your hips. The angle changes and he thrusts down so that the head of his cock batters against your womb.

He snatches your chin, his blunt nails bite into your skin. “The cold works for you,” he husks. “My Northern beauty.” He lowers his mouth a breath from your own. “My little wolf.”

Your chest tightens, your belly warming under his praise. Daemon’s appreciation is a rare thing. He fights everything offered to him. He bullies himself against the world until he cracks his own skull. You feel his hand catch the nape of your neck, grip it firmly. He traces the tender flesh that stretches around his cock, flicks and pinches the bead that sparks pleasure through your limbs. You shiver, thighs locked around his waist.

“Do you feel it?” he asks as you clench around him, walls pulsing as your lower muscles bear down. Even beneath him, you’re riding the dragon. You’re digging your knees into his ribs to straddle the beast. You hold his face between your hands as the warm, golden song dances beneath your skin, it simmers until it bubbles. It grows and grows and then you fall to pieces, cunt knotting around him, sucking him to your throat like it was your own desperate mouth. “Fuck,” he growls with another sharp pump of his hips. “Fuck - you feel it.”

He continues, possessing you in short, frantic strokes. The bed creaks. A log in the fire chars and hits the stone floor. Caraxes roars in the distance and you momentarily feel the blood of the dragon shoot through Daemon’s veins. He sinks his teeth into your shoulder just as he sheathes himself to the hilt, his body blanketing your own. The sweat from his brow hits your tongue. Out of the corner of your eye, you see his fingers clutch the sheets as if to anchor himself, bind himself.

“This feels…this feels…”

You are nailed to the ground, a ready sacrifice. A marriage. You are connected, tangled, wolf and dragon. Ice and fire.

“We have magic in our blood,” he realizes, scraping his teeth along your collar bone. Inside your core, he throbs like a beating heart. “I taste it on you.”

#daemon targaryen x reader #leth recs #golddaggers recs #leth reads #house of the dragon

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